


The Virtue of a Shade

by bountyhuntergirl



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: (kind of), BAMF Merlin, But not quite for the reason you might think yet, Dark Merlin, Gen, I don't like tags screw this, Magic, Minor Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s05e13 The Diamond of the Day, Protective Arthur
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-04-22 20:05:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4848722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bountyhuntergirl/pseuds/bountyhuntergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Season 5. Fifteen-hundred years after his death, Arthur rises again to find Albion exactly the way he left it. Now he must reunite with his queen and his people, living as refugees in the Darkling Woods as a dark power rules over Camelot, keeping time frozen in place and terrorizing the land. Arthur has been through many trials, and many darknesses, and he knows his destiny is to reclaim his land, by whatever measure. But how can he defeat Albion's greatest threat if Merlin himself is the enemy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Should you choose to read this story, I fully suggest that you read my notes preceding your journey:
> 
> 1\. Gwaine and Elyan are ALIVE. I like to deny the fact that either of them died at all. Unfortunately for all you Lancelot lovers, he's still dead… sort of.
> 
> … I suppose that’s it. For now, at least.
> 
> So, after an extended, undetermined, crazy two and a half year hiatus, here's to my first (rebooted) Merlin fanfiction. Yay! Now to reopen the rest of my In-Progress stories… possibly.
> 
> Kill me now.
> 
> And with that, I, once again, truly thank those who have returned to finish out my tale. Please review and enjoy, and check out my link to the story on fanfiction.net. Reviews and favorites are love!
> 
> Disclaimer: BBC owns Merlin.

Arthur opens his eyes on the sandy edge of Avalon's lake, and knows something is wrong.

 

He sees trees.

 

This, of course, is what makes things  _terribly_ wrong.

 

However, he not only sees trees, but feels the grainy sand under his palms, tastes the cold breeze upon his tongue, and smells the scent of freshly bloomed wildflowers swaying in the wind. He hears the shifting of spring grass, detects the cheeping of newly-hatched bluebirds, and senses the serenity and peace in the air. Everything feels frozen in a reposal of stillness, for lack of a better word, and the world feels harmonious in its ways. The sky is free from turmoil, and the earth free of pain, and the air free from anguish.

 

It's practically the way he left it.

 

In fact, it looks  _exactly_ the way he left it.

 

And this is when he realizes things are  _terribly, awfully_  wrong.

 

By now, any sane, probably-less-knowledgeable-than-was-necessary-at-the-given-time person may have assumed that Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, uniter of Albion, son of Uther the Tyrant and half-brother of Morgana the Witch, master of the greatest warlock to ever walk the earth,  _the Once and Future King,_ had gone completely, stark raving mad.  _Wrong?_ They would say incredulously.  _What could possibly be wrong, boy? Are things not well here? Is the world not at peace as you departed it? Had you not left us with grace?_

 

Arthur Pendragon would then explain how  _that was the complete point, you featherbrained twit, don't you see what's going on here? I left you with this peace. I left you with_ this  _peace. This peace. The same peace!_

 

And so it was.

 

Fifteen-hundred years after his death.

 

_And the world was the same._

 

For Arthur does not only see the trees, but he sees the  _same_  trees. He does not only smell the wildflowers, but he smells the  _same_  wildflowers. He does not only lie on the shifting, gritty sand, but the  _same_ shifting, gritty sand.

 

Fifteen-hundred long, sluggish, tedious years have passed since Arthur Pendragon was set away from this world, lain to wait for Albion's darkest of times. He has waited centuries to return and retake his rightful place as King of Camelot, bound to serve and protect his people and his kingdom. He has patiently and generously awaited this very moment, the moment where he would awaken with strength and purpose to save a broken and tattered world, foretold so very, very long ago, farther than the mind's eye could ever hope to comprehend, and rise victorious to once again be the greatest King the United Kingdoms had ever known.

 

And now Arthur is back, and everything is exactly the same.

 

And so everything is wrong.

 

* * *

 

Arthur nearly drowns back into Avalon the day he returns.

 

It's an ironic and stupid way to finally, legitimately die, he thinks, as he opens his eyes and feels the soaked, heavy weight of his chainmail and firey-red cape doing their best to hold him down in the water. His cape tangles between his legs as he desperately attempts to swim to the surface, his muscles pulling and climbing with a millennium's worth of waiting. His lungs scream for air, and after a few moments they recieve their reward as he finally claws his ways to the surface. Sighting the shore, just a few yards away, he quickly moves toward the sandy bank and scrambles up onto it, falling onto his back and just letting himself breathe for a moment.

 

He supposes the eighteen-and-a-half foot distance between the shore and the water where Freya booted him back into the world is finally her "playful" payback for him killing her all those centuries ago. Arthur can almost hear her teasing laughter in his head. The motion is not appreciated by the afflicted party.

 

After few, long moment's rest, Arthur sits up with a muffled groan, stretching out his limbs as best he can under his dripping chainmail and cape. He can feel wet sand stuck to his hair and neck, and grimaces as grit slides under his chainmail and coat, straight into his tunic. Even in the warm, mid-day sun, he shivers slightly under the cold metal of his mail. To his left, the lake's cool, glassy water laps almost timidly at the shore, rippling a  _Welcome Back_ from across the way. Arthur wonders for a moment if Freya is watching him now. He doesn't quite doubt it.

 

It's during his pondering he looks around and sees Camelot as he's always known it.

 

_Wrong. So, so very wrong._

 

His leather boots squeak and squelch as Arthur clambers hurriedly to his feet, ignoring his stiff muscles and unpleasantly wet socks, observing the area around him with a hawk's eye. Warning signals-  _this isn't right, was Freya on time?, did something go wrong?-_ flit through his head, and he tries to push them away so he can think clearly for a moment. Everything seems tranquil and easeful around him, and his instincts immediately flare with suspicion. Where was the war? Where was the great looming threat? Where was Albion's mortal peril?

 

Trouble doesn't take vacations. And in Arthur's case, trouble barely even stops in a tavern for a mug of ale and a bar fight with Gwaine.

 

Thinking of Gwaine (drunk, intolerable Gwaine, but still Gwaine nontheless) seems to steer Arthur's mind toward Camelot and it's residents. He takes a moment, remembers the busy and colorful marketplaces of Camelot's main square, remembers the cobblestone courtyard and the towering spires of the castle. He remembers the Darkling Woods of Camelot's borders, the sloping, emerald green earth of Camelot's outer lands, littered with the gold of newly grown wheat and the red of freshly ripened apples hanging like dewdrops from the emerald trees. He remembers the grey slabs of stone that were the castle walls, adorned with crimson and gold drapes and burning torches. He remembers his room: the warm, crackling fire in the grate (he shivers again just thinking about it), his carved wooden table and chairs, his ruby bedcurtains and drapes, his stained glass window that shone with magnificent, colorful light when they were revealed from under their curtained coverings, awakening him from slumber as he rolled over in his silken sheets to embrace his other half-

 

Gwen.

 

And just like that, a crowd of people are flicking through his mind like a flock of frighten birds: Gwen, Uther, Morgana, Leon, Percival, Gwen, Gwaine, Morgana, Morgause, Uther, Gaius, Gwen, Gwaine, Elyan, Mithian, Uther, Gwen, Mordred, Mordred, Gwaine, Mithian, Leon, Percival, Morgause, Gaius, Gwen, Gwen, Uther, Gwen, Morgana, Leon, Mithian, Mordred, Percival, Gwen, Elyan, Gwaine, Elyan, Gaius, Gwen-

 

_Merlin._

 

If a tree falls in the forest and everyone's around to hear it, does it still fall softly?

 

No. No. It crashes.

 

The thought of Merlin seems to make everything else in Arthur's head fade into sudden shadow, pushed against the walls of Arthur's mind as the single, solitary idea of Merlin himself shines like a beacon in the middle of all of them. Merlin. Mer _lin_. Merlin the manservant. Merlin the physician. Merlin the apprentice. Merlin the ward. Merlin the idiot. Clotpole. Lazy. Clumsy. Foolish. Wise. Intolerable. Loyal. Intelligent. Innocent. Gutless. Fainthearted. Determined. Persistant. Optimistic. Enduring. Persevering. Brave. Hopeful. Friend. Brother. Hero.  _Magic._

 

Merlin the sorcerer.

 

Arthur finally sits again, falling onto his knees in the sand as he lets himself think. His final moments with Merlin are seared in his memory with a branding iron fashioned of mourning. His last words as the world went blurry and black, Merlin struggling with everything he had to save his king, his friend, his  _brother,_  Arthur's anger, then guilt, then thankfulness, his last view of the world two broken, darkened blue eyes trying desperately to keep him awake-

 

And then his mind is rewinding, and suddenly Arthur's fifteen-hundred years younger again and he's on that grass and his side,  _oh it hurts so much_ , and he's dying _dying_ dying, and all he wants is to be with Gwen and his knights and his mother and his Merlin,  _his Merlin,_ but God it's too late, dear God it's much too late and everything is much too dark and foggy, and Mordred is dead and Morgana is dead and his father is dead, and now he,  _he_ will be dead, and there's so much blood and death and anger and hurt and love, and his Merlin,  _Merlin_ , he's so tired and it's too late, too late, too late-

 

_Panting. Frantic words. "Come on. We have to make it to the lake."_

 

_Protesting. "Merlin... Not without the horses... It's too late... it's too late..."_

 

Memories.

 

Arthur feels his heart clench.

 

" _All your magic, Merlin, you can't save my life..."_

 

_A quick denial."I can. I'm not going to lose you-"_

 

" _Just, just... just hold me. Please."_

 

His heart is beating too fast. Faster, faster, faster.

 

He knows what will happen. He knows what will happen.

 

_Hard to breath. So little air."There's... there's something I want to say..."_

 

_Arguing. Determination."You're not going to say goodbye."_

 

" _No... Merlin."_

 

Shaking. Shaking and trembling and it's colder than before now.

 

Arthur is cold.

 

_Fighting for air. "Everything you've done... I know now. For me... for Camelot... for the kingdom you helped me build."_

 

" _You'd have done it without me."_

 

_A chuckle. "Maybe."_

 

No. Stop it. This was too much.

 

Something is in Arthur's eyes. He rubs at them with a shaky nervousness. His hands vibrate like little earthquakes.

 

_Last chance. His last chance."I want to say... something I've never.. said to you before..."_

 

Arthur's whole body is trembling, rattling, quivering. Something wet is on his cheek, but the lake is over there, and his breathing- he can hardly breathe. The air is too thick and his throat is clogged with something, but he swallows and it still doesn't go away. The pounding of his heart echoes in his ears, and he barely hears an animal nearby make a rasping, choking, heartbreaking, tear-jerking,  _painful_  cry. It takes a moment to realize it's his own mouth making these almost silent, awful noises. He wraps his arms around his chest, bending over and trying to breathe because there's a hole in a chest, deeper and more painful than Mordred's and it's inside and  _it's killing him._

 

He doesn't understand why. He doesn't understand  _why._

 

_StopstopstopstopstopstopSTOP pleasepleasepleasestop._

 

It cannot stop. Just as it could not stop fifteen-hundred years ago.

 

" _Thank you."_

 

_And memory-Arthur reaches up, patting his servantwarlockfriendbrother's head, stroking his short raven hair, and he smiles, but it's gone almost immediately because his strength is gone, and Merlin is looking at him with his big, open, beautiful blue eyes and the world is fuzzy and black and going-_

 

_Soft like a whisper. "Arthur. Hey."_

 

_A warm hand on his face. No light, no light, no light. His eyes are closed._

 

_SomethingsomeoneMerlin is shaking him, part gently, part roughly with love and hurt and cracking determination and ohgodnononono._

 

" _ARTHUR!"_

 

_His eyes startle open and there's Merlin, his Merlin, and those beautiful open eyes are filled with so much love and pain and loss, pleading and begging and tearing and breaking, and oh Lord there's so much heartbreak, and Arthur's trying, pleaseiwanttostayohgodplease MerlinMerlinMerlin, but the light is so far away and Merlin is all that's left, and oh god Merlin needs him and he has to get up, but it's too late, too late, and Merlin's eyes are screamingshriekingdying with their own kind of pain and tears and anguish and Arthur is guilty, so guilty, and there's only blue eyes and raven hair and red neckerchiefs and magic and broken hearts._

 

_Three words._

 

" _Stay with me."_

 

_Three words._

 

_Arthur's heart breaks and there's blue and black and red and his heart beats for the final time and then there's nothing._

 

_His little bird has clipped his wings. The sun is gone._

 

This is the pain that Arthur missed when he died. Now here it was, making up for lost time.

 

Arthur wonders for a moment if Avalon's lake wasn't just all in his head, because the water pouring from his eyes, more, he thinks, than he's ever cried in his life, seems to be enough water to have filled the entire lake to the brim. He shakes and trembles and shudders so, so awfully. If he tried to stand he would fall flat on his face. He leans over because he's convinced he might retch from the sheer bout of mixed emotions running through his insides, twisting his stomach and squeezing his heart and tearing at his chest, clawing it's way to the surface. He rocks weakly, clutching at his torso, trying sorrowfully to hold himself together, because this ache, this  _pain_ , could only come from being forcibly, terribly torn over from the inside. Somehow, he thinks, he would rather be physically torn apart than this empathetical, excruciating, internal pain.

 

He abandoned them. God, he abandoned them.

 

How many times had he sat in Avalon and wondered about Merlin and Gwen and his knights and his kingdom? How many times had he stared at the stars at night and missed his better half, cursed to rule alone because he had not been strong or quick or smart enough? How long had he lay in bed at night and stared at the fire, hating it because when he woke up every morning of his centuries in the other land, it wouldn't be Merlin who was tending the fire or bringing him breakfast or throwing open his curtains with a flourish and a  _"Rise and Shine!"_

 

Lancelot and Freya had done the best they could to keep him occupied in Avalon. Freya was a wonderful, beautiful girl who adored Merlin so much. She held so much love and kindness and merriment and beauty; Arthur could never have seen anything done to this girl, much less let her live under the curse she had been burdened with as a mortal. The guilt for her murder, for  _his_  murder of her, was overwhelming, but she had just smiled at him softly and done the best she could for him anyway. She had talked to him, listened to him. She had showed him Avalon's farthest reaches, and introduced him to the people of the land. She had taught him how to cook, taken him on walks and swum with him in Avalon's crystal waters, given him books to read and maps to examine. She had taken Excalibur many times and hidden away with it, waiting for him to find her, as he always did, in their impromptu game to try and keep him busy. She had sewn him tunics out of a divine fabric; they had felt weightless upon wearing them, but still kept him warm in Avalon's cooler days. She had once made him a crimson neckerchief and left it lying gently on his pillow; he had kept it in his pocket every day since.

 

Under the position of the Lady of the Lake, Freya was the only one of them who could see beyond Avalon into the world across the water, but she could not speak of the world, nor Camelot or Merlin or Gwen to any of them. She was kept back by the rules of the Old Religion, she had explained, regret burning furiously in her kind, soulful eyes when Arthur had begged,  _begged,_ for some news, any news at all about his Kingdom and his people. There was always a hidden truth inside of her, and sometimes Arthur found himself resenting her, and then resenting himself when he found that, once again, his temper had gotten the best of him. She had lived an entire life of things not of her choice or fault, had she not?

 

Lancelot had explained everything that had happened with Guinevere all those years ago the first day Arthur had set his royal feet into Avalon. Lancelot: the noblest, and most brave-hearted of knights. Once, a time ago, Arthur would have thought differently; now, with the truth finally, finally fully in his grasp, Arthur could not have agreed more. Lancelot was humble and courageous and respectful and noble and  _good_ , just as he had been when Arthur had known him. The knight was dauntless and fearless, but he was also kind and loyal; Arthur had gladfully reknighted him upon Lancelot's request, Freya watching with a gentle smile and applauding at all the right moments. Arthur and Lancelot had sparred every day to come after his knighthood had been restored. He had been a good drinking partner (however, intoxication had been strictly prohibited in Avalon, to Arthur's irritation), a beneficial opponent, an adept listener and an intellectual speaker when the need came. He had done the best he could; Arthur could not help regreting that it still had not been enough.

 

Merlin's father. Balinor. The almost-last Dragonlord. He had been there too. Seeing him every day, hearing him regale children of Avalon, human and magic alike, with stories and tales and myths of his times in Albion, watching him associate playfully and happily with the dragons of the land, had been oh so very hard. Raven hair and beard. Blue eyes. A strong heart and wise advice.  _Magic._ He had been too like Merlin to bear.

 

Avalon had not allowed him to feel the physical pain of his towering emotions, the pain he was crawling through at this very moment, struggling to breathe, fighting for release. Avalon had not been enough; the guilt had been too much. There had been no medium, no middle ground, no no-man's-land.

 

Was it possible, he had wondered, to be the only one not to have forgiven himself for the wrongs he had done to those he cared about?

 

Yes, he knew. Because he still wanted to be strong enough.

 

Arthur didn't know how long he sat there, trembling and rocking and sobbing under the weight of fifteen centuries worth of locked away guilt and pain, holding himself together as best as he could manage, but when he had no more tears to cry and his sore, aching body was ready to collapse onto the bank, he finally opened his eyes. Looking up into the sky, he saw that the sun had moved farther westward toward it's setting point. Through red rimmed eyes, he estimated the time: it could not have been longer than a few hours until sunset. But he did not move.

 

He wasn't sure he knew how to yet.

 

The raging inferno in his chest had dulled to a flickering flame, aching and throbbing gently in his heart. Almost of it's own accord, his hand raised and fell to cover his heart, feeling through his chainmail for the thrumming of his heart. Ever, ever so gently he felt it, pulsing through his tunic and his coat and his mail to move beneath his fingers. His breathing had calmed, falling from irregular, painful sobs back into a soft, regular state. Softly, he used his other hand to wipe away the remaining tears from his face.

 

He didn't know how he could ever look at himself again. What kind of king was he now, nearly crumpled on Avalon's bank, broken and sobbing and  _weak?_ What king died by the hands of his own knight, stupidly oblivious to the Druid in disguise, the deciding factor in Mordred's final pledge to Morgana? What king let a sword's wound take him to the grave? Why had he not fought? Fighting was something he had been good at.

 

Why. Had he not.  _Fought_?

 

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, the lake's water pushed forward, lapping up the shore so high that it washed against his side. There was the swish of the moving water, so quick he didn't have time to see it hit his side, and then it retracted, falling back into it's normal rhythmic pattern, as if it's unnaturally high rising had been completely normal.

 

And as Arthur looked over, he froze, staring.

 

At the water's edge, blade shoved into the sand and gold-incrusted hilt pointed toward the sun, reflected the metal of the sword of Excalibur, the greatest sword ever made, forged in the dragon's breath, for the Once and Future King, and that king alone.

 

And as Arthur stared, he saw, for the slightest moment, something that would have been missed had he not been looking slack-jawed at his long-lost sword, a flash of two warm, encouraging, bold chocolate eyes upon the metal of the sword. They gave a wink, and then Freya's eyes were gone, returned to her rightful place among Avalon, protector of it's gates.

 

But the message. The message had come through.

 

And a few minutes later, as Arthur strode with head high into the forest, Excalibur fitted perfectly in his right hand, blonde hair and chailmail shining in the late-day sun and his cape billowing majestically behind him, he realized that she wasn't the only one returning to her rightful place.

 

_The King has returned._

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should you choose to read this story, I fully suggest that you read my notes preceding your journey:
> 
> 1\. Gwaine and Elyan are ALIVE. I like to deny the fact that either of them died at all. Unfortunately for all you Lancelot lovers, he's still dead… sort of.
> 
> … I suppose that’s it. For now, at least.
> 
> So, after an extended, undetermined, crazy two and a half year hiatus, here's to my first (rebooted) Merlin fanfiction. Yay! Now to reopen the rest of my In-Progress stories… possibly.
> 
> Kill me now.
> 
> And with that, I, once again, truly thank those who have returned to finish out my tale. Please review and enjoy, and check out my link to the story on fanfiction.net. Reviews and favorites are love!
> 
> Disclaimer: BBC owns Merlin.

It takes roughly three-and-a-quarter days on foot for Arthur to finally make it to the Valley of the Fallen Kings, just outside the White Mountains, which bordered Camelot from the west. Even after fifteen-hundred years spent in Avalon, Arthur hasn't forgotten the geography of his own kingdom; he remembers the forests, the trees, the rivers. He remembers his favorite, most productive hunting paths, and the flowered oases scattered throughout the woodlands of the realm. He remembers the smell of honeysuckle and fresh dew upon the grass and moss-covered trees, and knows the primative, raw, simple _feel_ of the land around him- _his_ land. It's as familiar as the very back of his hand.

 

Just as Avalon's bay has remained untouched, to Arthur, the Valley of the Fallen Kings looks just as overgrown and shady as ever, though, perhaps, without quite as many bandits, sorcerers, and other inhabitants of his kingdom in the long list of people who want him dead. The deadly, unnerving silence that fills the air as Arthur hikes his way through the gorge keeps him quite unsettled. His ears buzz with constant alertness, eyes darting every which way to make sure all is, and stays, well. The valley seems quite clear and nonthreatening, give or take a few stray animals that dart through the underbrush every now and then, sometimes loudly and suddenly enough that Arthur is startled into drawing his sword, instincts on fire for battle, only to be disappointed as a terribly frightened rabbit or fox squeals and runs like the entire forest has been set ablaze. It's somewhat satisfying, as awful as it sounds, when he catches a few of the offending rabbits, almost cheerful at the thought of the nice, juicy meat he would have for dinner that night.

 

He ignores the sad little voice in his head that sounds horribly like Merlin, berating him for the death of the small, helpless creatures; he knows he has to eat, and since royal feasts and such things are next to nothing in the bloody forest of all places, Arthur takes what he can get. He also manages to collect some edible, and not too shoddy-tasting berries from the vegetation around him, and finds a small but efficient fresh-water stream just a two-minute's walk from the small cave he settles in when the sun had begun to set on the fourth day of his travel. The notch in the ravine is modest, but etiquette, the ceiling high enough for him to sit straight without slouching over or having to bend his head, and the opening is closed off by a curtain of mossy vines; without his years of careful training and precision, Arthur would never have noticed the spot. The driftwood he collects is nice, dry, and sturdy, and lights beautifully with just a few scrapes of flint against flint and some rather dangerously flammable leaves he discovers on the same shrubbery.

 

By the light and heat of the fire, Arthur skins and guts the rabbits, and then cooks them until they turn a mouth-watering golden-brown. They're a bit small as far as jackrabbits go, and they're not seasoned of course, but they aren't gut-wrenchingly revolting; Arthur sinks his teeth into them, even, like they're deep-coated in Merlin's homemade herbs and spices. The berries and figs he collected are soft and ripe, and the cool, clean water washes everything down nicely.

 

Finished, Arthur tosses a couple larger pieces of wood into the fire, then leans back against the wall of his haven and draws a rolled-up map out of his boot. Arthur's grateful for the map of Camelot that Freya sent with Excalibur, rolled up and tied with leather cord around the hilt., because while Arthur was perfectly capable of tracking his way through the general extent of Camelot's lands and outer reaches without so much as a compass on hand, this map marked specifically any potential roadblocks or barriers that Arthur might come across, such as, for example, a rockslide marked only a few miles from here that Arthur had had to skirt around a few hours before on his way toward Camelot. Without the map, it would have taken Arthur nearly twice as long to retrace his steps and find a way around the obstruction.

 

_Freya might not have been able to tell me about Camelot then,_ Arthur thinks as he smooths the map out on the floor in front of him _, but thankfully even magic can be lenient now and again._

 

Observing the map, Arthur grimaces as he traces his finger along his intended path back to Camelot. Roughly three miles from his current position on the parchment, a red circle is drawn, just a few hundred yards or so before the valley opens up to the White Mountains, and beyond to Camelot. Inside the circle 'collapsed trees' is scrawled in Freya's loopy, graceful hand; it's obviously more of a predicament than it sounds- likely a pile of storm-blown trees blocking the valley's exit- and, after closely examining the map once more, Arthur groans aloud when he finds that he'll have to scale the cliffs in the morning and make his way around the blockage, then scale back down the wall to reunite with his original path. Arthur's plan is to make way around the White Mountains so as to stay out of any potentially problematic situations that would be likely to occur trying to pass through the mountains. The fact that Arthur's luck is extravagantly lacking in, well, _anything_ beneficial, isn't a secret.

 

In turn, staying on the cliffs would make it impossible not to take the route through the mountains, and trying to avoid climbing the walls and simply facing the obstructions would mean quite a few more days he would be behind on reaching Camelot, stuck here trying to cut his way through fallen tree after fallen tree. While time doesn't have much relative importance at the moment, it would seem, since Arthur has absolutely no clue what Albion's "greatest peril" is at all quite yet, he's decided to return to Camelot as quickly and safely as possible, since this seems to be the most productive way of figuring out what's really going on.

 

Sighing, Arthur tucks the map back into his boot, then rocks forward and unclasps his cape from his shoulders and yanks off his gloves, discarding them on the cave floor. He scoots toward the fire again, stretching and warming his slightly stiff fingers. The flames crackle and pop with warmth, and for a moment Arthur almost longs to reach out and touch it, as if he could hold it without it's sting and burn, longs for the warmth the fire seems to try to be offering out to him. It's a mask, the mesmerizing beauty of the fire- inviting and warm on the outside, but within lies pain and anguish and a burning tempest.

 

_Just like Morgana,_ his mind suddenly whispers.

 

The temperature of the cave seems to drop ten degrees at this, and Arthur feels his gut twist. Pulling his hands away from the fire, he reaches for the red neckerchief that had come knotted around his right bicep when Freya had booted him back into the world. He pulls the knot out and takes the fabric into his fingers, feeling the weightless, silky texture of the scarf. It's cool to the touch, and in another moment of childish reckoning he wants to press his face into it, just to feel its satiny chill against his skin. Instinctive pride overpowers this ridiculous urge, however, and so he settles for running his thumbs over the glossy material instead, watching the brilliant crimson of the cloth flame a bright scarlet by the light of the flickering fire.

 

It's pretty unnerving how his mind has made such a terribly accurate connection between his half-sister and his deceptive, make-shift hearth. She had been as a fire was, her beauty and kindness and regalia masking the truth wrath underneath her expensive dresses and satin locks. They had been friends once, he hopes, but anger and fear can corrupt even the most lively, vibrant of people, and just as unbridled flames can burn down the mightiest cities, Morgana set aflame the walls and pillars and bridges of their relationship, all the relationships of those who had loved and cared for her, until only ashes and fire-stains remained branded in their hearts.

 

In contrast, he suddenly thinks, Merlin is like a river, or a stream- clear, cool, and refreshing. It holds life within itself, supporting and nurturing the lives of the creatures that thrive inside of it. It has its murky spots- even the most virtuous of beings have their secrets, big or small- but, when the sun shines down and the water sparkles with life, it doesn't always matter, because the light still overpowers the darkness.

 

And now that he's thought of all of this, he knows Guinevere, his beautiful, sweet, amazing Gwen, is like the very air itself. He needs her like his heart needs to beat; he gave it to her long ago, so he supposes, metaphorically, it really _is_ her job to keep it beating. She's invigorating like the wind, vibrant and kind and _airy._ His very cries out for her. Fifteen-hundred years they've been apart, and his love hath never faded.

 

He almost laughs when he compares his most loyal, trusted knights to the earth, because the first thing that pops into his mind is how Gwaine is, most ironically, _hard-headed_ , and just how perfect the comparison is. There's still seriousness, however, in the likenesses. Leon, Elyan, Percival, Gwaine, and Lancelot still, he knows now- strong, powerful, unyielding, truehearted, dedicated, steadfast. They're the epitomes of bravery, courage, and endurance. They're fighters, never bowing out or displaying cowardice in the face of insurmountable odds. Fewer people he's ever been more proud of.

 

They seem so far away; the logical part of his brain knows that they're only days away, waiting for him, but his emotions- they tell another story. He's been gone so long, so very, very long, and he hates that the distance between himself from himself to them- his best friend, his wife, his knights, his people, everyone- cannot make up for fifteen centuries' worth of lost time. He thought of them every single, agonizingly long day in Avalon, every hour, minute, second. There wasn't a moment when he stopped- through nights drinking down enough mead with Lancelot to kill a full grown giant, through he and Freya's games of hide-and-seek, through Balinor's literally as well as figuratively magical tales of adventure and danger, through reading and fighting and counseling and studying and hunting and sleeping and dreaming- they were there, always lingering in his mind. They're imprinted on his very self, his heart and soul, and he loves them.

 

_He loves them so much._

 

The snap of a breaking branch resounds from outside the cave and Arthur freezes instantly, tensing. He feels his ears twitch feebly, straining to hear something, _anything,_ in the after-silence. The natural movements of the forest- the sway of the gentle breeze, the sound of rustling and shuffling feathers as mother birds settle their hatchlings down to sleep, the throaty _whoo_ of owls, even the quick scurries of ants across the cave floor, stealing the leftovers of Arthur's meal- it all comes to a silent, deadly halt with him. He's not the only one who senses the intruder about.

 

Arthur cocks his head, listening. Long, strenuous moments pass, crawling by as Arthur listens for anything- another snapping branch, footsteps, the swish of a cloak or the gait of a wild animal- but there is nothing, no other indication that the harmony of the forest had been disrupted in any way in the last few moments. Another few, tedious minutes pass, and the nature around the king begins to relax again. The mother bird coos to her younglings, an owl hoots and swoops into the night sky, and the breeze blows again, sweeping briskly yet softly into the hovel.

 

Arthur frowns a bit, but his trained ears aren't detecting anything else peculiar in his surroundings. He reaches out, pulling Excalibur a bit closer to his side, but his body is already starting to unwind, his adrenaline fading. Cicadas chirp loudly in the trees, and the sound is soothing, like the crackling fire or the feel of the silken neckerchief held in his grasp. He figures now it must have been another fox or a frightened jackrabbit, perhaps the former chasing the latter down for it's evening meal, since, thinking over it, for nearly four days, Arthur hasn't seen one other living soul. Not one single person. No bandits, no merchants, no patrols, not even a nomad, or a druid either. The odds were next to nothing it really _had_ been anyone. He throws another log into the fire.

 

There's the _shing!_ of a swing sword, and the mutilated, mossy coverings of his camp collapse to the rock floor.

 

Arthur's on his feet before he can even think, Excalibur gripped tightly in his hand, at the ready. He barely takes in the sight of the cloaked figure standing with weapon lowered in the opening before he's lunging forward toward the trespasser, adrenaline pumping wildly through his body once again.

 

"No, no, wait! Arth- OOMPH-!"

 

The figure hits the ground with a gasp and a thud, his sword flying from his hand, as Arthur has just thrust his elbow into the man's stomach, knocking him painfully to the ground. He groans, struggling to sit up, but he's forced right back onto his back as the king pounces, slamming his knee onto the panting man's chest to hold him down. Excalibur's point is at the interloper's neck immediately. Wide eyes stare nervously up at the king, unseen beneath his hood by the vigorous, attacking monarch. Arthur leers down at the man.

 

"Who are you?" Arthur demands loudly, powerfully. "What are you doing here, how did you find me? Talk!"

 

"Arthur, it's me, it's me! Look, it's me!" The man exclaims quickly, and he throws his hood back immediately, revealing short black hair, tanned skin, and two large, terrified-looking eyes.

 

Arthur's jaw drops, and he gapes like a fish. "Lancelot!"

 

It is indeed Lancelot, in the flesh, living and breathing. He looks just as he did their fifteen-hundred stay in Avalon, dark and tall and handsome, but the most shocking part is that he's _living_ , actually living, just as he wasn't only a few days ago, wishing good lucks and waving goodbyes to Arthur as he left on his journey back to Camelot. Arthur is completely stunned.

 

"Yes, my lord," Lancelot chokes out uncomfortably, eyes moving from the king's face to the royal knee still planted firmly on his chest. "Er, my apologies, sire, but might you please...?"

 

Arthur blinks, pushing his shock aside. He lowers Excalibur, putting the trusty sword to the side, then stands, bowed under the low ceiling, and stretches out a hand to his knight, who accepts it gratefully. Lancelot sits up and shifts to rest against the cave wall, hand splayed over the spot where Arthur's knee had been shoved into his torso, massaging what's likely a fresh bruise. Arthur grabs Excalibur and moves to sit on the wall opposite him. Sliding down the surface of the wall, Arthur takes the moment in which Lancelot is regathering his breath- and his wits- to tend the fire with the end of his invincible sword, poking aimlessly at the flaming logs. After a long moment of just the sounds of the crackling fire and many, _many_ chirping crickets, Lancelot looks up at his liege again, catching Arthur's eyes.

 

"I sort of figured you'd be surprised to see me," Lancelot says quietly.

 

"I don't understand," Arthur blurts out immediately, truthfully. "You're dead! Or, well—" his face scrunches in thought- "you _were_ dead, I suppose, but how in God's name did you..."

 

"Freya," Lancelot says simply. "And Balinor. They used magic to send me here after you."

 

"But it's not possible!" Arthur exclaims. "Balinor- he said no one could be brought back to life! It goes against the laws of life and death—"

 

"Ah, yes," Lancelot affirmed, nodding, "but, you see, I'm _not_ alive."

 

Arthur's eyebrows draw together in confusion as he looks the knight up and down; he seems real enough. His mind still feels partly frozen, the cogs and gears in his brain failing to work appropriately.

 

"But..."

 

Lancelot frowns slightly as Arthur falls for a lack of words, and he takes the chance to move, shuffling sluggishly over on his rear to sit in front of the king. Flicking the drape of his cloak over his shoulder, he reaches up and pulls on the neckline of his olive-died jerkin aside, until his reveals the skin above his heart. Arthur sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening.

 

The ugly scar adorning Arthur's side, the remaining evidence of Mordred's sword piercing through his body, looks tame compared to this. The flesh covering Lancelot's heart is ugly and marred, purple and red with bruising. The affliction is as big as Arthur's fist, and a tendril or two of the revolting blemish reach out like branches of a tree, stretching out over the skin of his shoulder. The skin around the mark is jagged and torn, as if tiny claws had pulled up on his very flesh. The sight is terrible and gruesome and so awfully _unworldly_ \- so such that Arthur's blood runs cold.

 

"What kind of magic did _this?"_ Arthur murmurs, horrified, reaching out to touch the mottled bruise. It's tender, and disgustingly sponge-like under his fingers, and as Lancelot hisses in discomfort and Arthur draws his hand back, he fights the urge to vomit.

 

"The very complicated kind," Lancelot answers grimly, looking disdainfully down at the mark. "The scar is a coil of magic, and it's what's keeping me alive in this world."

 

"How do you mean?"

 

"The spell took my heart, Arthur," Lancelot says, fingering the fraying edges of his neckline uncomfortably. "The magic, well, it 'holds' it for you in a way- in Avalon, in my case, it's being kept safe until I return and the enchantment is lifted."

 

"Why?" Arthur asks, bewildered. "What's this all about?"

 

"The spell has allowed me to come here, Arthur, back to the realm of the living," explains Lancelot, "but not in the same way you've returned. I can only survive for an extended time here without my heart; eventually, I would be forced to go back to Avalon, willingly or not, to have my heart put back. So, you see, the spell doesn't truly bring you back to life- it just allows you to part with you heart, and the afterlife, for a short time."

 

"How long do you have?" Arthur questions, thinking over the load of new information.

 

"Until I've helped you complete your quest," Lancelot says simply.

 

"Against Albion's greatest threat?" Arthur asks wonderingly.

 

"Precisely."

 

"But we know next to nothing about it!" Arthur exclaims. "What if it takes years? Decades, even?"

 

"It's my destiny to help you save Camelot, Arthur," Lancelot says sincerely, looking up at his king with truthful, determined eyes, "and it's people, no matter how long it takes. I'm here to serve you my lord, with every cost on the line. I pledged myself to you a long time ago, sire, and that will never change."

 

Arthur sits quietly for a moment, thinking over the man's brutal honesty and loyalty, a pang in his heart at how similar the words are to the ones Merlin told him so very long ago, as Lancelot pushes himself to his feet, retrieves his sword from across the cave, and goes to kindle the fire.

 

"Something terrible has happened," Arthur says out loud, grabbing Lancelot's attention again.

 

"Have you seen something troubling, sire?"

 

"No, I haven't," says Arthur, and he grimaces, "and I'm afraid that might be the problem."

 

"My lord?"

 

"I haven't seen _one_ other person, Lancelot," Arthur says, frowning. "Not one. No bandits, no druids, no vengeful sorcerers out for my head- no one except you. And while I loath to admit it, that scares me."

 

"Now that I think on it, I haven't seen anyone either," Lancelot admits, poking at the crisp, burning logs in the fire pit with the tip of his sword, "but I supposed that was just you passing through, sire." He throws a little smile at Arthur; the king does not return the gesture.

 

"The quiet here... it's unnerving," says Arthur slowly. "I wouldn't be here- living, breathing, fighting- if nothing was happening in Albion. But everything is so... peaceful... and calm... and it's _wrong."_

 

He combs his fingers through his hair in frustration, scowling, and then he's half-shouting at the listening Lancelot, blurting out the troubles that have been plaguing him for days, poking and prodding at him until he can stand it no longer. "And it's all the same too! The world is literally how I left it! Completely! It all looks exactly like it did when I died! The land, the trees, the flowers, the animals- everything! If so much time has really passed, none of this should even be left!"

 

Lancelot frowns. "What are you saying?"

 

"It's as if time has stopped," Arthur says, calming his voice and his nerves, collecting himself, staring into the tended fire. "I don't know why, or how or how long everything has been like this, but it's imperative that we find out. Whatever's frozen Camelot- it isn't good."

 

Lancelot nods slowly, thinking it all over. "Right..." he says- not condescendingly or with disbelief, but with interested acceptance of something he unknown, unacknowledged. Then he sighs, coming back to himself, and turns away from Arthur and back to the fire.

 

"I suggest we get some rest then, sire" he says, dimming the hearth. "If we want to reach Camelot in a couple of days, we'll need our strength."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanfiction.net link:


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should you choose to read this story, I fully suggest that you read my notes preceding your journey:
> 
> 1\. Gwaine and Elyan are ALIVE. I like to deny the fact that either of them died at all. Unfortunately for all you Lancelot lovers, he's still dead… sort of.
> 
> … I suppose that’s it. For now, at least.
> 
> So, after an extended, undetermined, crazy two and a half year hiatus, here's to my first (rebooted) Merlin fanfiction. Yay! Now to reopen the rest of my In-Progress stories… possibly.
> 
> Kill me now.
> 
> And with that, I, once again, truly thank those who have returned to finish out my tale. Please review and enjoy, and check out my link to the story on fanfiction.net. Reviews and favorites are love!
> 
> Disclaimer: BBC owns Merlin.

Arthur and Lancelot set out early the next day. Lancelot puts out the remaining flickers of flame left in the small hearth, and as the fire turns to ash and smoke, Arthur pulls Freya's map from his boot and explains the intended route to the knight. Lancelot is attentive and respectful, and he heeds Arthur's words with a "Yes, sire" and another stomp of his foot on the dying fire. They reclaps their capes and swords to themselves (still at the ready, because really, this is still Camelot, and it's highly unlikely that even after fifteen hundred years, the universe will go easy on Arthur), and once Lancelot has retied Arthur's scarlet neckerchief around the king's bicep, the two leave for Camelot.

 

Their walk is uneventful, as was the days before, and the two make it to their roadblock within the hour. It's even larger than Arthur had imagined, and thicker as well, and he's thankful that the Valley's walls are practically made up of furrowed grooves and ruts – nature's hand and footholds, carved wonderfully for a climb. They scale the embankment quickly and carefully; it's not terribly high in this part of the gorge, but at the moment, a fall would still hinder their continuing unnervingly lucky progress. They skirt quickly through the wood and make their way around the fallen trees, and once they've cleared their way below, they make their way back down into the rift and head away from the obstruction.

 

About a hundred yards later, Arthur spots the White Mountains through the trees on the higher ground. They're just as beautiful as he remembers, tall and snow-capped, even in Camelot's warmest summers. They loom over the Valley like a god, and for a moment Arthur feels almost _afraid_ of them – a deep-rooted, cautious, strange fear. In the seemingly abandoned world, in the solemness and quiet, the mountains are like monsters above him, stretching silently, deadly toward the blue of the sky, and Arthur's wariness skyrockets. He pushes it to the back of his mind, ignoring the ridiculousness of it all, and trudges on, Lancelot in stride.

 

After another couple hundred yards, the Valley thins out and they finally reach the stone-arched entrance. They jog up the earthen steps that descend into the rift, and when they reach the top the Valley ends and the world opens up into the far outer reaches of the Darkling Woods. It isn't quite the Darkling Woods here, really, with how far west the Valley lies, but the actual border of the woods aren't too far a walk from the Valley. The familiar forest path lies before them, and Arthur pushes away the memories of riding down this trail, Merlin beside him and his knights following him, as they always had.

 

Arthur reaches into his boot again, drawing out and unfolding Freya's map. He smoothes it out and studies it, Lancelot peering over his shoulder and keeping an eye out on their surroundings, his hand laid firmly on the hilt of his sword.

 

"There's a village a few miles from here," Arthur said, moving his finger along the map toward a small town marked off not too far from their current location. "Laxton. Small, but they're well known for bringing in the best tomato supply during the harvest season. Surely we can find someone to lend us a pair of horses-"

 

"If there's anyone there at all," says Lancelot, completing Arthur's thought. The king nods, replaces the map, and signals them onward.

 

Keeping to the forest road, it's nearly midday by the time they reach Laxton. The village itself _is_ quite small, nestled in a cleared off part of the wood, but most of the village is a large field, covered in vine after vine of freshly-grown tomatoes, big and small, some ripe orange, others still green. A good three-quarters of the entirety of the village is tomatoes, and they all look perfectly unspoilt. The growing soil is moist to the touch, and since there's been not a bit of rain since Arthur's return, they conclude that there must certainly be people living in the village. Stealing a few of the larger, ripened tomatoes, the two make their way through the field to the main village, eating as they go.

 

Besides a random array of stray animals and, to their delight, a pen of horses lazily grazing and sleeping away, the town is utterly silent, and they realize with the utmost confusion that the town is completely deserted, devoid of any form of human life. They check and double-check every house, picking through every building, calling out for anyone that could hear. They hunt through the market-place and town square, listening for footsteps or voices of the people who lived there, swords drawn simply to steel their nerves.

 

"I don't understand it! This isn't possible," Arthur says, confounded. "The soil is watered and the tomatoes are fresh! The houses are clean, even the square is clean! Someone has to be here. If this place was really abandoned, none of this would even be possible."

 

"I haven't the faintest, sire," Lancelot answers. "This place, it's like it's not been touched for years. Everything's still in perfect condition: the water in the well, the crops, the flowers. Everything's been cared for, handled like any other functioning village. But it's _empty._ Completely empty. No families, no children, no merchants or beggars." He thinks for a moment. "Perhaps there's been an attack?"

 

"No," Arthur replies surely. "There would be signs of an invasion: structural damage, clear signs of a struggle, destroyed supplies and shelters torn down. It's too peaceful to have been an attack." He finally slides his sword away, disappointed and baffled.

 

"Surrendered without a fight?"

 

"There would still be signs of a forced invasion, and most of their essentials would be missing. There's still food and clothes and valuables here. Whatever happened to this town, I don't think violence was involved."

 

"So everyone just disappeared?" Lancelot asks sceptically. "They all just got up and left everything behind?"

 

"It's ridiculous, I'm aware," Arthur concedes, "but nothing here makes any sense. If this town isn't inhabited, it should be wearing down, possibly even completely ruined depending on how long it's been like this. And if it is inhabited, then where did everyone go? They wouldn't just leave, especially not without food or valuables, or anything else they would need to just leave the town behind."

 

"You were right about one thing, my lord," says Lancelot grimly, sheathing his sword, "something is most certainly wrong. Something's happened in the time you've been gone, there's no denying it now. Maybe in the Valley, maybe, but here, in a perfectly sound village? It's like everyone in Camelot has just vanished without a trace."

 

"We need to get back to the city," says Arthur sternly. "Now. We can't wait any longer, we need to find out what's happened here."

 

"There are saddles and supplies in most of the houses, sire," Lancelot says. "We go by horseback, Camelot shouldn't be more than a three hours ride away. Two if our way is unblocked and we ride fast enough. I think it's best we get there before the sun sets."

 

"Then we need to go immediately," commands Arthur. "Saddle and rein two of the horses, the best ones you can find. I'll pack some food, get some clean water from the well. Ten minutes."

 

Lancelot nods his assent, then right away runs off to collect two pairs of saddles and reins. Arthur watches him for a moment, then turns and approaches the nearest market shop.

 

The merchandise left in the market turns out to be just as fresh and cared for as everything else in the peculiar little town. Arthur enters the food shop and ducks behind the counter, finding and taking two cloth sacks and two water skins from beneath the wooden counter top, then scours the shop for food, packing tomatoes, onions, apples, carrots, corn ears, bread rolls, nuts, sugar cubes, and napkin-wrapped cheese into the cloth bags.

 

Once he's finished packing enough food for their trip, plus some in case their route doesn't follow smoothly as planned, he steps outside and fills the mole-skin sacks with water from a small barrel outside. Replacing the top of the barrel, Arthur grabs his things and makes a quick stop in the nearby inn. From behind the counter he collects two small knives and two woolen blankets. With everything in hand, he starts back to the horse pen.

 

Lancelot's beaten him to it, and when Arthur arrives, he's finishing buckling the second saddle onto the other horse. Both are young and quite muscular, well-bred to be ridden. Arthur hands Lancelot one of everything he collected and they tuck their supplies into the saddle bags before swinging up onto the horses and righting themselves on their new steeds.

 

"We travel east from here," Arthur says, gripping his reins tightly. "If we're fast, we should make it before evening falls."

 

"Yes, sire," Lancelot replies, nudging his horse with his heel.

 

They spur their horses immediately into a run, riding quickly out of the pen and down the main path back onto the forest trail. They curve left and begin to ride east, pushing their horses on as fast and hard as they can go without exhausting them too quickly.

 

The horses truly are well-bred, trained for speed, and within the first hour, the two make it halfway to Camelot. The forest path is clear, mind a coating of leaves and dirt from what the two figure is disuse. Their deductions are confirmed by the lack of any footprints along the way, human and animal alike. Even the wild animals don't seem to trespass here.

 

They slow their horses to a trot once they've hit the halfway point, and they keep a slow pace until Lancelot points out a stream visible through the forest foliage. They steer the horses to the stream and dismount, letting their steeds refresh themselves before they move on again. Arthur and Lancelot settle under a nearby tree and drink and eat as well, keeping an eye on the horses as they do so. They rest for a bit, finishing some of their rations and quickly rechecking the map to confirm their course, before they collect their horses, repack their food and water, and set out once more.

 

Arthur's anticipation mounts as they grow closer and closer, from an hour's distance to a half-hour's distance to a quarter-hour's distance. If Lancelot notices the way Arthur's hands grip the reins as if for dear life, he says nothing, only keeps speed with his king as they ride quickly down the trail.

 

The trees grow thicker and thicker as they finally come within sighting distance of Camelot. Arthur frowns, his nerves screaming to see Camelot once more, to see the view of the crowded market-place, to smell the scents of roasting pig in the kitchens or Guinevere's sweet-smelling hair, the sounds of the knights training, swords clashing, or Merlin's nonsensical, jovial retorts. His longing for home is increasing, rising like the ocean tides, and he almost wants to scream out loud. He might've, except Lancelot is with him here, watching over him, fighting for him, keeping him safe.

 

They slow as they approach familiar landmarks – a tree stump here, some flowers there, a blossoming apple tree ( _still_ blossoming, Arthur thinks grimly) – they slow again, letting their horses stroll. Arthur feels nervous and tense as they approach the end of their journey. Just past those trees, he knows, just past those trees lies everything he's waited for. Camelot is past those trees. His castle and his room are past those trees. Merlin and Guinevere and Gaius are past those trees. Leon and Elyan and Gwaine and Percival are past those trees. His people are past those trees. His _home_ is past those trees. Something inside him screams, tears and rips and fights for it all, and Arthur's stomach flips because _it's finally time._

 

Arthur throws Lancelot a look as they reach the end, and he knows that it's uneasy and careful and gut-wrenching and _terrifying_ , but Lancelot just nods and holds his head high and strong and keeps his face unreadable yet comforting, and Arthur realizes he's thankful for that. Lancelot has a soothing presence, he always has and did and will always have that, and Arthur is suddenly, amazing grateful because whatever is on the other side of the trees, right or wrong, good or bad, he has Lancelot, strong, loyal, true Lancelot by his side, and Arthur wonders how he ever thought he could have done this alone.

 

Arthur swallows and nods back, and with a deep breath, they break through the trees.

 

Their jaws drop open and hang, bewildered in mid-air, and Arthur's eyes widen until he feels they might pop out of his head.

 

"By the Lord," Lancelot whispers, nonplussed. "What in God's name – "

 

They look dumbstruck down the path to Camelot – or, at least, the place where Camelot had once been. The city, the entire castle, market-place, training grounds, _everything_ , lies hidden, cocooned under a vast forest of shadowy thorns, long and thick and twisted and sharp, ensnaring the entirety of the city like a blanket of needles. The two can barely see anything; only the tallest towers of the castle rise high enough to be properly seen. The rest is entirely encircled in blackened brambles and darkness.

 

"What the hell happened?" Arthur asks softly, utterly confounded. "What the _hell_ happened?"

 

"We need to find out" Lancelot said grimly. "Come, sire, we have to find out what's going on!"

 

Lancelot rears his horse and, with Arthur following his example, they set off at a run again, racing for the front gates. Arthur nearly falls off his horse when they reach the thorn-wrapped gate, practically jumping out of the saddle and rushing toward the gate. For a short moment he stops, examining the thorny vines, and then he yanks Excalibur from it's sheath and slices fiercely at the offending plant. Excalibur cuts through the vines like butter and Arthur, triumphant, hacks and cuts and slashes with new, zealous impatience.

 

Lancelot comes up beside him and draws his own sword, striking out. His sword bounces off the vines, leaving only the tiniest of gashes. A full cut would take hours to make. He frowns, thinking, and then it clicks in his mind.

 

"They're magical, Arthur!" Lancelot exclaims at once. "The vines, they're enchanted!"

 

"That's a bit _obvious,_ Lancelot," Arthur retorts sarcastically, still slicing.

 

"I meant that they're completely resistant to anything non-magical!" Lancelot explains. "They're completely viable to non-magical weapons. Excalibur was forged in dragon's breath, that's why mine won't cut through. Excalibur disrupts magical qualities – it's the only thing that can get us inside."

 

"Right. Lovely," Arthur mutters through gritted teeth, but he continues his assault on the bewitched plants, cutting through layer after layer after layer of vines keeping him from his city. Lancelot replaces his sword in its hold, watching Arthur quietly as he hacks away at the thorns. Arthur can feel the ache starting in his arm from the force of his blows (it's almost _desperate_ how he fights against it), but he ignores it, blocks it out and continues to throw himself into the strokes.

 

After a few long, tedious minutes, Arthur sees a sliver of light through a thick coppice of vines, and his heart races faster as he pushes himself into that spot, slicing quicker and harder than before. Lancelot shifts behind him, watching with calm face; Arthur can feel his anxiousness though, hidden under the knight's almost stoic composure, tangible in the air between them, and he knows it well because his own is floating there as well, thickening the already tense air they're sharing.

 

Finally there's an opening in the vines large enough to slide through. Arthur slumps, panting, flushed and sweaty from his vigorous attack. Lancelot grips his shoulder and squeezes, giving him a small smile of encouragement, and Arthur nods assent, straightening up to breathe more deeply. When he's taken his fill of clean, cool air, the king slides his sword away, then, grimacing, looks to the tall but slim passage hacked mercilessly into the fauna.

 

"It's not very wide," Arthur says, still a bit breathless. "So watch your face." Arthur steps forward then, and with a pointed look at Lancelot and a prayer for luck, Arthur covers his face with his arm, turns sideways, and moves carefully through the thorny passage.

 

The ten seconds it takes to make it to the other side are painful and irritating, and when Arthur pushes himself out of the four-foot thick brush into Camelot's village square, he groans at the multiple stinging cuts he can feel all throughout his body, some quite deep from rough meetings with aggravating magical thorns. Straight away, Arthur takes a small, indistinct scan of the area around him to draw the shortest, most needed important conclusions of his immediate surroundings: no attackers, no immediate danger from any outside forces, no magical onslaught. He nods, satisfied for the moment with the little instinctual information he's got.

 

Arthur calls out to Lancelot, telling him to proceed. He diligently waits for Lancelot, listening to the rustling of Lancelot verses the plant life and the muttered curses under the good knight's breath. After a moment, Lancelot pushes through the opening as well, arms over his face and thorns stuck in his body. They pull thorns from their skin with hisses of discomfort and a few more curses (because by _god_ those thorns are _horrid)_ , and with that settled, they turn to face Camelot's marketplace, hands on their sword hilts.

 

"Damn," Arthur spits out darkly. "Damn it all!"

 

At mid-day, the market-place is shadowed and dark, the sun and sky almost entirely hidden from view by the thorny coating above, and like the rest of the kingdom, Camelot is fully deserted. There aren't even any wild animals, nor horses or dogs; the entire town is utterly silent. The two immediately take action, initiating a thorough search of the centre, checking and rechecking every house, every shop, every forgery and inn and pharmacy and tavern and trading post. They scour the entirety of the market, calling out for civilians, listening for footsteps or laughter, even the coughing of citizens dying of some illness or infliction. Their hunt leads to no avail; every house, every shop and workplace, the training grounds and the fields and gardens are all wholly abandoned. With every pocket, nook, and cranny of the whole town searched, they are once more forced to find that they are completely alone.

 

"This is madness!" Arthur finally exclaims, clenching his fists tightly. "Where. Has everyone. _Gone?_ Did they just vanish into thin air?"

 

"But what if they did, Arthur?" Lancelot supplies, still unnervingly calm in his ways. "The entire city is wrapped in a mass of magical thorny vines, every bit of food, water, and merchandise in the kingdom is still in proper, clean shape, and suddenly every Camelotian subject has mysteriously vanished. It's obvious that whatever's happened not just to Camelot, but to all of Albion itself, has been caused by dark magic. Nothing fully _human_ did this."

 

"When I left Camelot, I left it in peace," Arthur says, crossing his arms, thinking seriously. "Who would do something like this? Morgause, Morgana, and Mordred are all dead and past, and Merlin, strange as it is, has enough power to defeat an entire army of Saxons alone. I know, I saw it. He's loyal to me and to Camelot, and if I know one thing right now, just one, it's that Merlin would _die_ before he let Camelot fall." Arthur frowns. "So what happened here? What, or _who,_ has enough power to do something like _this?"_

 

"We've not yet been to the castle, sire," says Lancelot, turning to look at the palace curiously. "What ruler doesn't have a throne? Perhaps our answers lie there."

 

Arthur stares at the castle, still thinking, considering, then lets out a huff, running a hand through his scruffy hair in exasperation. "Perhaps. Whether or not it does, it's the best shot we have."

 

Lancelot nods affirmatively, and with a long, deep, readying breath, Arthur steels himself and leads them up the path to the castle. He tries not to think along the way.

 

The castle gate is already raised, the inner courtyard completely open to any passerby (meaning just them, but nonetheless). The courtyard is, as expected, entirely devoid of any life, but unlike the rest of the places Arthur and Lancelot had examined, the yard isn't as well groomed. In fact, both the yard and the castle look oddly disheveled. Cobblestones throughout the area are cracked and some are slightly stained green with gathered moss. Leaves are strewn over the ground, and through the cracks in the pavement, dark, malnourished roots stretch and squirm, reaching for sunlight they'll never find. Some already lie dead and dry on the pavement. The castle walls look dirty, sections of wall coated in age-old ash and sooty smudges, other parts darkened and discolored from lack of care-taking. Banners and flags still hang, some ripped and torn, others faded from bright red into maroon and cordovan. The breeze blows sheepishly through the yard, as if to fill the spaces left behind by the people of Camelot.

 

The castle's doors have also faded and rot, termite-ridden and scratched and discolored. They're still surprisingly sturdy, however, and when Arthur pushes on them they swing open willingly, creaky and moaning with age. He steps in slowly, moving a few steps into the hall, letting his eyes roam and observe the corridor as Lancelot comes up behind him, covering his flank. Empty, of course, Arthur expects nothing more, nothing less, but the castle has a more desolate feel that anywhere else. The wall torches are unlit; they look, in fact, like they haven't been used in a very long time. The stone walls are covered in a thin layer of dust, as well are the floors. The castle is unnaturally cold, and as the doors fall closed behind Lancelot, chills shoot down Arthur's spine.

 

"Anything?" Lancelot inquires from behind him.

 

"No," Arthur says evenly, holding back a sigh. "Looks like another dead end."

 

"Let's keep searching, then," Lancelot says, almost gently. "There's _got_ to be something here, there's just got to be, I can feel it."

 

Arthur stops another sigh, replacing it with a tight-lipped nod. He begins forward again, moving at a steady, gradual pace down the corridor, Lancelot at his heels. They keep their steps as quiet as possible as they walk over the solid slabs of white-stoned floor, always watching and listening, fingers twitching near their sword sheaths. Goosebumps prickle over their skin in the cold palace; Arthur ignores the temptation to light a torch.

 

They reach the end of the hallway and carefully peer into the next one, scouting for anything out of the ordinary before turning the corner and starting their way down the adjacent corridor. They repeat this again and again as they move deeper into the castle, making for the center of the castle, the noise of their breaths their only sounds for a good half-hour or so.

 

"Nothing?" Lancelot asks as Arthur moves carefully around the corner of the eighth hallway, still treading lightly, cautiously listening and observing.

 

"I don't think so," Arthur replies after a moment. "This one's empty too. I don't think – "

 

_CLANG!_

 

Both men jump in surprise, hearts pounding as the crashing noise rips through the quiet stillness of the hallway. They both freeze, not daring to move or speak or even breathe, listening intently for another sound, anything to indicate where the noise had come from. Their hearts are still pounding fiercely, jumping into their throats and back. Their hands have started to their sides, gripping their hilts tightly. They strain their ears, waiting.

 

A few long, nerve-wracking moments pass, and then they hear a shuffling echo from nearby. Slowly, the king and his knight turn back down the hallway they had just come up, twisting around to look back at the shut doors of the throne room they had passed only moments ago, standing mutely, and now quite eerily, in the middle of the hallway. The shifting noise stops for a moment, silence, and then the _something_ is stirring again, scrambling softly around inside the room.

 

Lancelot throws Arthur a look and Arthur returns it, weighing his thoughts on Lancelot's silent question. After a moment of quick deliberation in his mind, Arthur nods at the knight and Lancelot's dark eyes whisper assent. The shifting noise from within the throne room continues as Arthur steps forward, Lancelot at his side, moving as quietly and swiftly as possible toward the wooden doors. They stop directly in front of the doors. The noise pauses again, and they wait, and then it continues on again, almost like it's _pacing._ Whatever _it_ is.

 

The king thinks quickly, letting his instincts fuel his thoughts. Ideas and plans flash through his mind, deliberations on what to do and how to do it. He stares at the doors, still listening, quieting his breath as his mind races and processes and comes to a spry decision.

 

They need to know what's on the other side of that door. And they need to know _now._ This may be their only chance – and their only plan.

 

Arthur braces himself, then looks quietly at Lancelot, meeting his eyes. He draws his sword slowly and silently from its hold, and holds a finger from his empty hand to his lips as he gestures for Lancelot to do the same. Lancelot carefully parrots the move, waiting on Arthur's orders. Arthur holds his sword ready and Lancelot copies, lifting his defensively. The knight catches Arthur's eyes again, nodding.

 

_Ready._

 

Arthur gives one quick nod in understanding, grips his sword ever tighter, and listens one last time. The noise continues unhindered, unaware of the knights standing just outside its lodging.

 

Arthur lifts his empty hand, signaling. Lancelot falls into a battle stance as Arthur flicks his fingers up in a countdown.

 

_One._

 

Breathe.

 

_Two._

 

Set.

 

_Three._

 

Go.

 

With that Arthur leans back, kicks, and breaks open the doors with loud, resounding clatters. The two rush in, swords raised, adrenaline in their veins and battle cries on their lips –

 

"Hello, Arthur Pendragon."

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should you choose to read this story, I fully suggest that you read my notes preceding your journey:
> 
> 1\. Gwaine and Elyan are ALIVE. I like to deny the fact that either of them died at all. Unfortunately for all you Lancelot lovers, he's still dead… sort of.
> 
> … I suppose that’s it. For now, at least.
> 
> So, after an extended, undetermined, crazy two and a half year hiatus, here's to my first (rebooted) Merlin fanfiction. Yay! Now to reopen the rest of my In-Progress stories… possibly.
> 
> Kill me now.
> 
> And with that, I, once again, truly thank those who have returned to finish out my tale. Please review and enjoy, and check out my link to the story on fanfiction.net. Reviews and favorites are love!
> 
> Disclaimer: BBC owns Merlin.

Arthur stops like he's been kicked in the chest, eyes going wide. He freezes, instantly going still, and, just behind himself, Arthur knows that Lancelot has done the same, shocked so deeply to the core that neither seem to know how to do anything but  _stare._

 

This isn't  _possible._ And this is coming from a fifteen-hundred year old king.

 

"It's been a long time, hasn't it?" The voice,  _her_ voice, purrs, smooth and velvety, shudder-inducing. Arthur thinks he might throw up; his stomach churns with agonizing horror that he hasn't felt in centuries. "I think the last time I saw you was… oh  _yes."_

 

She smiles, and it's like poison.

 

"When your  _prick_ of a manservant  _impaled me."_

 

This can't be  _happening._

 

"Morgana," Arthur chokes, and it  _is._

 

The woman standing there can be mistaken for no one else, hair long and dark, curly locks tangled in clumps and braids like some sort of barely-tamed nest. Her clothes are ragged, her dress ribbed with tears and stretching, her robe botched in places with unexplained stains, the black color long faded from vibrancy into a sort of dull darkness. On the floor is evidence of where she'd been pacing, in the form of footsteps, printed against the stones like there's ink smeared along the bottom of her boots, and it had marked the territory she'd crossed, leaving her tracks.

 

Her face is pale, pallidly so, lips frosty rather than bright red, as they had been before she'd turned away from what was good and pure in her desperate quest to make Arthur and his family suffer. Her eyes are dark, black instead of the vibrant green they'd once been, like someone had drained the color from them and let her long-boiling hatred and fury shade her irises with their dark tone. Her mouth is twisted into a smirk that's all anger and no sympathy (though, really, Morgana hasn't felt sympathy for  _anyone_ in a very long time).

 

She's supposed to be  _dead._ And Arthur  _really_ doesn't feel guilty for wishing that she still was.

 

"Nice to see your eyes still work, my  _liege,"_ she drawls, voice threaded fully with sarcasm, giving a slight, mocking bow. "I see your age has, of yet, had no bearing on anything other than your always-increasing stupidity."

 

"You're supposed to be  _dead,"_ Arthur hisses, his grip tightening around the hilt of the sword in his hands.

 

"Sorry to disappoint," she sneers, scoffing as her eyes travel over Arthur's shoulder, her gaze finding Lancelot and locking on with intense focus.

 

"Well, well," she says after a moment, in a hum. "You brought a friend." Her smirk is venomous, cold, full of a smugness that sends defensive anger rippling through Arthur's blood, down his spine and through all of his bones. "I remember this one," she snickers. "He was my puppet once.  _That_ was fun."

 

"Leave him  _alone,"_ Arthur snarls angrily, not allowing Lancelot his own chance to retaliate. "Shut your fucking mouth."

 

"Language!" Morgana spits, glaring him down with eyes of dark fire, like that's truly what she's angry about. As if that means  _anything_ right now. "How  _dare_ you speak that way to your  _queen."_

 

Arthur's reaction is automatic; he scoffs, the sound layered with disgust and disbelief. "Queen of  _what?"_ he spits, filled with a furious fire of his own. "An empty city? Did you slaughter them all?"

 

Morgana cackles. "I wish," she hisses. "But the opportunity was, unfortunately, not mine. I would have taken pleasure in burning them to ash like your father did to so many innocents, himself."

 

"This isn't about him."

 

She lets out a cackle that's pitchy in nature. "This has  _always_ been about him," she snarls. "Everything I've done was about destroying the reign of the  _Pendragons._ Murderers of magic, annihilators of the powerful."

 

"My father was a fool," Arthur hisses. "But  _you're_ a  _monster."_

 

"Maybe to you," she says coldly. "I was to be the hero of sorcerers. We were  _meant_ to be the dominant race. We were meant to  _rule."_

 

"You're no hero, witch," Lancelot hisses, his own voice fueled with a fury that Arthur can relate directly to. "You're nothing but a devil and a traitor."

 

"If I'm a traitor for defending the hundreds of innocents Uther  _slaughtered_ , then I will gladly stand for my so-called  _betrayal."_

 

She sneers again, eyes glaring down at her half-brother. "This city is mine, now," she says coldly, lips curving up into a cruel smile. "And this time, there is no  _Emrys_  tostand in my way."

 

Arthur's face twists into a deadly snarl. "Where is he?" he demands, his whole body thrumming with anger, his voice rising in a furious shout. "What did you do to him, Morgana!"

 

"I did nothing, but oh, how I wish I had," Morgana cackles, eyes alight with horrible pleasure at the idea of  _whatever_ had happened to Merlin. "I wish I could have cut him open and pulled out his goddamn  _heart._ I wish I could have taken him apart and buried him throughout the city streets."

 

She laughs again, loud and awful, the sound echoing, reverberating through the throne room with a chilling effectuation. "How I wish I'd been the one to hurt him," she chuckled darkly, "but I can live knowing that he  _suffers."_

 

"How dare you," Arthur growls, hackles risen, hands closed in white-knuckled grips on his sword, still raised in defense of the sorceress before him. "Tell me where he, and all of my citizens, are! Now!"

 

" _Your_ citizens?" she snickered. "There is  _nothing_ here for you, Arthur Pendragon! This city is  _ruins!_ This city is  _mine!"_

 

"Camelot will never belong to you!" Lancelot barks, his voice loud and filled with the same rage spreading through Arthur's body, filling him with an anger and righteousness that is beyond words. "Arthur is Camelot's king, and he is the only true ruler of Albion! You have no power here!"

 

"This throne is  _mine!"_ Morgana shrieks, dark eyes flooding sudden with gold, molten and angry. "And even after fifteen hundred years, I will not stand for another murderer of magic to sit upon it!"

 

"You  _will_ stand down," Arthur hisses warningly, "or I shall  _make you."_

 

Morgana's face twitches with annoyance and fury, before her expression finally twists into stony, dark rage, her eyes shining brighter as she lifts her hand into the air. Arthur and Lancelot tense, and Morgana snarls, voice biting and utterly livid.

 

"You'll have to make me, then," she snaps, and waves her hand.

 

The inanimate suits of armor against the walls, made into decorative statues of knights, spring to life instantly, drawing swords and maces that used to be useless in their metal hands, now wielded as the life-threatening weapons they were meant to be. The suits are all rusted with age and wear, coated in bronze spots and sheened with brown over the expanse of their metal surfaces, but with magic they move with a grace that's unhindered, that's almost like the elegance of a real swordsman.

 

Lancelot whirls around as the suits, ten in all, surround the knight and his king, encircling them for the attack. They're cold, and there's no doubt that they're brutal, emotionless and murderous. Morgana's eyes burn with golden fury, and she shrieks for them to attack as their weapons go up, already lunging in Arthur and Lancelot's direction.

 

Arthur reacts on pure instinct, and swings out his sword in time to catch a mace mid-swing, saving himself from having his head separated from his body. He throws his weight forward to dislodge them, managing to throw the knight off balance just enough to get his sword through its chest. It jerks once, and doesn't hesitate, yanking right off the sword and lunging at Arthur again. The king curses and ducks, flinging himself sideways, allowing the knight to clash into one of its mates, the clash resounding through the room, metal on metal.

 

Arthur staggers, whipping around in time to see Lancelot take the head off a knight before another one is throwing itself at the king, its rusty blade meeting the shine of Excalibur's, the sound sharp and loud. Arthur gives a shout, bracing himself on one foot to throw the other into the knight's chest, shoving it back. It trips, stumbling at Arthur's kick, and Arthur moves quickly, cutting the helmet off of the suit of armor. It flies away, clanging where it bounces off the stone floor, and the body collapses instantly, crashing into a dead pile.

 

Arthur pants, barely dragging in a breath before two more are on him, and he wheezes slightly, ducking desperately to avoid the swing of another mace. It flies around, embedding in the chest of its partner, and Arthur throws himself away from them while the first knight yanks its weapon from the other's chest, lurching forward after the king. Arthur sidesteps to avoid the mace coming down on his head, only to nearly run into the swing of the second knight's blade. He grunts and spins to the side, twisting the hilt of his sword and thrusting it back, impaling Excalibur into the head of the closest knight. He shoves his arm forward, successfully ripping the head from the knight's body. The head flies off the end of his sword, and the body drops, tripping its mate and sending him sprawling. Arthur lashes out, slicing off the head of the second knight, sending it flying with a hard kick.

 

He hears another clash of metal on metal and whips around, eyes finding Lancelot's form, standing off against his third knight. Lancelot swings, missing, ducking from another blow before lashing out with a slam of his elbow to the knight's chest. The armor staggers, and Lancelot swings, just as, out of the corner of his eyes Arthur sees another knight lunging right for Lancelot's victorious form.

 

There's no time to call out to Lancelot before the enchanted armor is jabbing its arm forward, and Arthur watches in horror as it slices straight through Lancelot's back, the metal of the blade erupting from Lancelot's chest, just as the defeated knight's head goes flying from the slice of Lancelot's blade. Lancelot's face twists, mouth dropping in agony, eyes huge, gasping in a desperate, ragged noise. The knight's fist flies last, slamming into the back of Lancelot's head, and Lancelot goes horrifyingly limp, collapsing, sliding off the knight's blade as he slumps to the floor in an unmoving pile, leaving a long smear of scarlet down the rust-covered sheen of the knight's sword.

 

Arthur lets out a howl of fury that overtakes Morgana's victorious cry, barreling forward, sword flying. He slices off the heads of two more coming for him without more than the power of his own angry adrenaline, before throwing himself at the knight splashed with Lancelot's blood, blade swinging. He slams the flat of his blade into its helmet, sending it reeling before shoving it into the nearest wall with a crash, letting out another enraged yell before slicing the damn thing's head off, finishing them off.

 

He whirls around, breathing hard, sweaty hair in his eyes, frantic gaze finding Lancelot just as Morgana screams, and Arthur feels her magic latch onto him in a wrathful grasp. In the next moment he's flying, and his back explodes with agony when he hits the far wall at full speed, shouting out in pain as he collapses to the floor, shaking with exertion and anguish. He groans, but the sound is cut short as Morgana throws him again, throwing him through the air and slamming him into the wall opposite the first one, sending him sprawling, body screaming in torment. He gasps desperately for air, wheezing through ribs he's pretty sure are broken, heart pounding in his ears. Past it he can hear Morgana's rapidly approaching footsteps, but moving seems impossible, his whole body aching, pained.

 

"You should have stayed dead," she hisses, voice spitting and choked with her own venom, thrusting her hand at him again. Her magic takes a hold of him again, and Arthur heaves out a noise of intense suffering as she lifts him from the floor with her power alone, pinning him flat against the wall. Arthur's lungs and heart are screaming with pain, his ribs sending shots of throbbing agony through his whole chest. Arthur gasps, the sound ragged and broken, unable to struggle as Morgana advances, eyes alight with fury beyond words.

 

"I've waited so  _long_ for this," Morgana snarls, her form blurry in Arthur's sweat and pain, looking almost as if she's flickering with how angry she is. "This time, I will  _rid myself of you, Arthur Pendragon!"_

 

Her voice is a shriek by the time she clenches her fist, and Arthur feels his airway cut off instantly, her grip steadfast and furious. He spasms, unable to move, his body instantly going into a mode of extreme panic, his lungs screeching ever louder in fear without air to fuel them. He's shaking all over, and in seconds alone his whole body is jerking as best it can, fighting desperately to find air that's been taken from him. His vision blurs fast and hard, swimming between heightened and defined, and a slur of nothing but colors and fog.

 

"This time, there will be  _no_ returning for you," Morgana's voice snarls somewhere beyond the hummingbird-fast drumming of his desperate heart, her voice echoing and deathly cold. "There will be no  _rise of the fallen king._ Albion is  _mine."_

 

Had Arthur not been quickly dying under Morgana's pale but powerful hands, he would have felt a severe sense of disappointment, for lack of a better word. What kind of king was he, he thought, to return to Albion, only to be killed by the hands of his dead half-sister, and in the first fortnight? He would have thought that there might be some kind of cruel, cosmic irony to the whole thing, but he was more focused on the fact that his body was now seizing, dying rapidly against the wall of his throne room, unable to even wheeze, body practically on fire with his agony.

 

His ears hear Morgana's cackling, but as his sight returns for a brief, terror-induced second, Arthur's eyes find someone else standing before him, fist clenched, their magic strangling Arthur to death against the stone wall. His gaze sees but he cannot believe, his vision half spotty with black bursts and explosions of blurry color, cannot believe in the person his gaze has found, the person his brain has identified before him. Short. Dark hair. Body long and lean under their ratty tunic and jacket, their skin pale white, untouched by the sun. Their eyes shine with bright gold under flurries of their loose bangs, their expression twisted in a hatred that's indescribable. Arthur's eyes see, but he cannot believe, cannot believe that in the middle of his death his mind would draw such tricks, would make him see such things.

 

His servant. Sorcerer.  _Friend._

 

_Merlin._

 

Arthur's eyes fuzz over in a blur, just as, from somewhere far to Arthur's left, the king hears a slam, the doors of the throne room swinging open in a bombardment of crashing noises where they hit the walls, flung wide. Arthur hears shouting mixed with the sound of Morgana's screeching, and his vision makes another desperate return in time to see her—  _not Merlin, not Merlin, not Merlin—_  watching as her hand releases her grip on him, allowing her to dash away, and Arthur collapses into a pile, unable to think about anything but the air his body is desperately dragging in, and the absolute  _suffering_ his whole body is in.

 

From somewhere far away (that's probably closer than his hollow hearing can realize), Arthur can hear shouting and clanging, but his brain is working too slowly right now to figure out what could be happening. His vision hasn't changed, spotty and blurred, except for the fact that it's going dark now, the colors and lights fading slowly into blackness. He wheezes, whole body burning with pain as the sound around him dies down under the sound of the frantic beating of his heart in his ears, and while he tries to fight, there's no point, his consciousness spiraling quickly downward, his world fading around him. His body quakes, pained and abused, and, just as he falls out of reality and into a hard faint, he thinks he feels someone turning onto his back, hands thin, warm, and… familiar.

 

Arthur coughs, wheezes, and falls alone into the darkness.

* * *

" _Maybe you should check him again,"_ is the first thing Arthur hears when he comes to, feeling as though he's slept for another thousand years. His brain and hearing is still foggy, both pounding badly, and it takes him a moment to find the ability to focus on the whispers he's hearing, managing just barely to make out the words.

 

" _I checked him just a few moments ago,"_ murmurs another quiet voice.  _"He's still the same—"_

 

" _That's not a_ good  _thing."_

 

" _I didn't say it was, my lady."_

 

Arthur exhales, brow wrinkling slightly. The voices sound familiar… sound so familiar that he feels stupid for not recognizing them instantly, even in his groggy, stuporous state.

 

" _Please. Please check him again."_

 

" _He's right, my lady,"_ another voice murmurs, even more familiar, though Arthur feels like it's misplaced there, alongside the… the living.  _"We must give him time. Morgana nearly killed him."_

 

" _Is that supposed to make me feel better?"_ The first voice, a feminine one, demands.

 

" _Unfortunately, no. But it's the truth, ma'am, and that's all I can give."_

 

" _I have a name, you know, I don't need you to call me that."_

 

" _I'm going to have to ask you both to leave if you two can't keep quiet,"_ the second voice that had spoken hissed, firm in its resolve.  _"Arthur needs to_ rest—"

 

It's only in perfect timing, then, that Arthur's chest revolts, and he breaks into a fit of ragged, painful coughing, body jerking badly, chest rising and falling from the soft but itchy surface of whatever he's laid out on. He hears rapid footsteps, before he feels two pairs of hands carefully come down on his biceps, holding him steady as he hacks and wheezes, chest burning with pain. He gulps air in desperately, throat sore and thick where Morgana's power had attempted to squeeze the very life out of him.

 

" _He needs water,"_ the feminine voice insists at one of the other voices, hers stricken with worry.  _"Quickly!"_

 

Arthur hears footsteps hurry away as his coughing finally begins to slow, and he groans brokenly, breaths broken and raspy as his eyelids flutter, and finally, slowly, peel back, opening.

 

He has to blink for a minute before anything comes into focus, and the first thing he sees is long, dark hair, nearly hanging in his face. His gaze travels further upward, up, up, up, to find the face the hair is attached to, but it's turned away from him. His ears ring slightly, but he can just hear the sound of the feminine voice speaking rapidly, shooting off orders, just before her face finally turns back to him, eyes huge on his face.

 

His blue eyes meet brown, worried,  _familiar_  ones. Arthur stares, eyes huge, and his pained breath catches in his throat.

 

_Guinevere._


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur’s mouth literally drops open in shock, but instead of words coming from it, like he intends, he goes immediately into a second fit of coughing, vision blurring badly at the pain that the new fit causes him. He can still see Guinevere, mostly, through the teary fog in his eyes, but he can’t speak, managing to wheeze past the coughing in a sincere effort to keep breathing. Guinevere shouts at someone to hurry just as another silhouette of hazy colors enters the right side of his vision, and, moments later, a third form appears, and the tip of a water skin comes to touch his lips.

 

He manages to get his fit under enough control that he can drink without choking, chugging water from the skin like he’s never experienced the fresh relief of water before. He muffles enough of his coughing to suck down the whole of the water given to him, and he gets an odd feeling, due to how parched his throat had felt before, that he hasn’t had water for at least a day, maybe more. The idea of losing any more time, after so long in Avalon, lost to his world, sends a ripple of fear through him that he feels almost pathetic for having, and, once the water skin has been pulled from his lips, he forces his eyes open again, blinking away the blurriness in his vision as quickly as he can.

 

After a minute or so, his chest heaving with relief from the rush of cool water down his throat, Arthur’s vision clears, and he can see with just the barest hint of fogginess on the outer reaches of his sight. Guinevere’s beautiful, worried face comes back into full focus, and Arthur’s stunned to realize that, whether it’s truly Guinevere or not, her form before him is very real, and looks completely and utterly like his widowed wife. He swallows, eyes lingering on her a moment before remembering that other forms stand around him, coming into the same clarity in Arthur’s sight. Arthur blinks, before shifting his vision, eyes finding the other two standing above him. This time, his mouth really does fall open.

 

Standing from somewhere near the top of Arthur’s head, upside down in Arthur’s range of vision, is Lancelot, looking concerned and not as dead as Arthur had presumed (“presumed” being a weak term, considering that he had seen Lancelot skewered through the chest with his own two eyes). The man, however, just looks as worried as Guinevere does, eyes scanning over Arthur with concern, apparently, and this wasn’t a permanent mental diagnosis on Arthur’s part, totally fine, despite being run through with a _sword._

The other figure is older, with long white hair and a crinkled face, and Arthur blinks before putting a name to the weathered face, stunned. _Gaius,_ he thinks blearily, and it is, looking down at Arthur with a mix of concerned interest and careful scrutiny, putting Arthur under the same gaze that the king had seen many of Gaius’ patients receive over the years Arthur had known him. For some reason, Arthur is more stunned by Gaius’ presence that either of the others, but maybe it’s just the effect of returning to Camelot after fifteen-hundred years to find everyone he knew _still alive._ Or, in Morgana’s case, made alive once more.

 

“Arthur?” comes a cautious, questioning voice, and Arthur jolts a little, eyes wide as he swivels them back to look at Guinevere again, heart pounding at the sound of her voice. It’s exactly how he remembers it, silky and sweet by nature, with a hint of shaky concern threaded in the sound, worry fervent in her whole face, her whole form. He exhales, feeling suddenly very stupid, very at a loss of something to say. What do you say, after all, after being _dead_ for a millennia and a half?

 

His wide eyes and silence, however, filled with his loss of what to say, seems to be taken alarmingly, as Guinevere looks quickly to Gaius, seeming immidiately panicked.

 

“Gaius, are you sure he’s okay?” she demands hurriedly, fear written in her features. “Can he hear me? Can he even understand what’s happening?”

 

“My lady, I cannot say for certain,” Gaius says gently, voice calming, and Arthur jolts a little at the sound of it, as well, both familiar and new to his ears after so much passed time. “He’s only just woken, he may still be highly disoriented.”

 

“You said Morgana had him in a death grip when the others found us in the castle,” Lancelot says seriously. “I was unconscious, and I cannot say for certain how long she had him in her strangle-hold. Perhaps the lack of oxygen was damaging to him?”

 

“I don’t believe that’s the case,” Gaius denies, however, shaking his head. “I believe I would have found more visible evidence of damage had she done enough to truly incapacitate him.”

 

“But you can’t know for certain,” Guinevere points out.

 

“I never truly can, Guinevere,” Gaius says, with a little sigh hidden in his voice. “But I’ll hold any… dire diagnoses until I can observe him from a state in which he’s more cognizant.”

 

“And if he never is?”

 

“I hold out hope, Gwen. You should try the same.”

 

“Gaius, I can’t just—“

 

“Gwen,” Arthur says finally, abruptly, cutting the woman off. His voice is weak and ragged, rough from its tousle with Morgana’s magic, but Guinevere’s lovely head veers instantly around to him anyway, eyes wide on him. Her hands, thin and warm, find one of Arthur’s, and she pulls it close to her bosom, a hope that she’d denied to Gaius now burning cautiously in her eyes.

 

“Arthur?” she questions, sounding desperate to be assured that his voice hadn’t been a trick before, a fallacy built out of her desperation to know that Arthur was alright. “Arthur, can you hear me? Do you understand what I’m saying?”

 

Arthur nods, the simple movement making him a little dizzy, a weak throb in the back of his head. “Is this real?” he croaks. “Are… are you all really here?”

 

A weak tear dribbles down Guinevere’s cheek, but she makes a noise that sounds like a weak laugh, a tiny smile managing to grace her lips, relief flooding her face, brightening her eyes. “I could have asked you the same thing,” she croaks, squeezing his hand gently, sniffling, her gaze glued to his face as if he’d vanish if she looked away.

 

“How do you feel, Arthur?” Lancelot’s voice questions, and Arthur tears his gaze from his wife after a moment, his eyes finding his knight and focusing on the man.

 

“How are you alive?” Arthur asks first, ignoring Lancelot’s question, and Lancelot sighs, but shrugs.

 

“I’m not really alive anyway, remember?” he says. “The wound hurt — very badly, I might add — but I can’t really, well… die.” He flickers his eyes to Gaius for a moment. “Gaius sewed me up. His reaction wasn’t very different from your own.”

 

“Can’t imagine why,” Arthur says, and manages to put enough of a dry tone into his voice that Lancelot gives a wry smile, his shoulders relaxing slightly at Arthur’s familiar, albeit exhausted, use of sarcasm. Arthur moves his gaze, lastly, to the older man watching him, Gaius’ eyes still taking stock of his patient with a careful focus. “Gaius?” he says, and the physician’s gaze finds his instantly. In an accidental copy of Lancelot, Gaius’ shoulders relax minutely, calmed marginally by Arthur’s newfound responsiveness.

 

“It’s very good to see you awake, sir,” Gaius says with utter sincerity. “However, that seems a _very_ big understatement to make.”

 

Arthur snorts, giving a rough cough or two. “It’s only been fifteen-hundred years or so, Gaius, give or take a month or two.” This time, Gaius gives a small smile, though there’s something in it that’s aged, something in the physician’s eyes that glimmers with some trepidation about Arthur’s reappearance, though Arthur’s fully convinced that Gaius was good and informed of Arthur’s return, most likely by his ward after Arthur had woken in Avalon to his new, and temporary, home so many long years ago.

 

Thinking of Merlin makes Arthur tense, and he remembers the moment in the castle where, through blurry vision, oxygen stolen from him, Morgana hadn’t been Morgana, but a raven-haired warlock in a shabby brown jacket and a red neckerchief, eyes glowing with molten gold. The memory sends an invisible shudder down his spine, and he swallows, putting aside his own desperate inner questioning to refocus on the people around him, still watching him carefully, observing him to make sure he wasn’t slipping into a catatonic state, or something of the like. Arthur exhales, and moves to sit up, pausing when Lancelot moves to help him, gingerly leaning Arthur up before slipping a couple of pillows under Arthur’s shoulders to prop the king up, allowing him to further relax and rest.

 

“What happened?” Arthur asks once he’s settled mostly upright, eyes flitting between the three of them. “Where am I? How much time has passed since…?”

 

Lancelot grimaces, eyes darkening a bit. “Two days, my lord,” he reports tentatively. “We were rescued from Morgana’s clutches.”

 

“Rescued? Rescued by who?”

 

“Sir Leon,” Lancelot says, and Arthur blinks in shock (though, at this point, it’s not as much as the initial amount he’d felt when he’d first seen the faces of his wife and physician). “And the others. Gwaine, Percival, Elyan. A few others. They found us in the castle, and brought us here.”

 

“How did they find us?” Arthur inquires. “Where are we now?”

 

“The Darkling Woods, sire,” Gaius says. “In a small Camelotian camp, only a few miles from the border of the Forest of Ascetir. Several miles from the reaches of the Morgana’s magic.”

 

“That far?” Arthur says, stunned. “How did the others find us? Surely there was no way you could have _heard_ us this far from the castle.”

 

“Of course not,” Guinevere says, not meanly, shaking her head as Arthur’s gaze returns to her. “One of the reconnaissance patrols was keeping watch not too far from here, and they saw the pair of you riding for Camelot.” She shakes her head. “One of their messengers rode to us as fast as they could and told us what they had seen. We hadn’t seen you ourselves, we couldn’t be sure, it-it just seemed so… so unlikely. Obviously.”

 

She flushes a little. “But Leon and the others insisted on going anyway, to be sure. They were convinced it was you, desperate to know if it was really you, after all this time.” She smiles weakly again, relief obvious on her features. “And it was.”

 

Arthur nods. “It was,” he says. “It is. I’m… I’m back. I’m here, Guinevere, again.”

 

Guinevere nods, sniffing a little. “I know,” she says. “I know you are.”

 

“Guinevere, I am… there’s no way to describe how _sorry_ I am,” Arthur whispers, insisting, clutching tightly back to Guinevere’s hands, mind clearer now, his head not so pained from his injury. “If I could have returned sooner, if there was something I could have done….” He shakes his head, eyes pleading. “I wish I could deserve your forgiveness, for all of this. For-for leaving. For dying and leaving this, all of this, in such ruin. I’m so _sorry.”_

“There’s nothing for you to apologize for,” Guinevere insists, gently but fiercely, utterly genuine. “This isn’t your fault, Arthur. And neither was-was dying.” She reaches out with a hand, touching it gently to Arthur’s cheek, and Arthur leans gently into the caress, instantly craving the familiarity of the woman he loves. “I cannot give forgiveness for something you have no fault in.”

 

“Perhaps if I had done more,” Arthur insists, but now Gaius is shaking his head as well, a somber expression on his face.

 

“Your destiny was set in stone, Arthur, from the day magic was used to put you in your mother’s womb,” Gaius says. “It was something you couldn’t escape, and now it’s something that has brought you, inevitably, back to us.”

 

Arthur considers, careful as he starts again. “Freya, the woman from the lake,” he says, and Gaius’ eyes darken slightly; Arthur isn’t surprised that Gaius is aware of who he speaks. “She told me that I would only return in Albion’s darkest hour.”

 

Gaius nods, quiet. “Indeed,” he murmurs. “That is what the prophecy of your life declared.”

 

“I don’t understand, Gaius,” Arthur insists. “Nothing has changed, here. I returned expecting-expecting an entirely new world.” He waves his free hand between all of them. “I thought you were all dead! How is this, how is _any_ of this, possible? How are you all alive? How is _Morgana_ alive?”

 

Gaius and Guinevere share dark looks, looks that hold something deeper than Arthur can expect to understand by just reading their cautious glances. Lancelot has the same grim expression on his own face, and it makes Arthur’s blood run cold to look at them, to try and decipher what hidden knowledge has suddenly made the atmosphere feel so cold, so threaded with tension.

 

Arthur swallows, speaking carefully, something in his gut almost compelling him to ask, feeling as though the question is very, very important. “Where’s Merlin?” he asks lowly, quietly. “Where’s Merlin, Gaius?”

 

The room hikes up another twenty degrees in tension; Gaius’ face is fully shuttered, now, and Guinevere looks conflicted, expression just as dark as the tight-lipped faces of the men standing with her at Arthur’s bedside. Arthur’s heart pounds a little faster in a mix of irritation, worry, and desperation for answers, nearly becoming a sort of fear in his need to know what’s being kept from him, what he doesn’t know about the world around him.

 

_“Gaius,”_ Arthur insists, fiercely, but there’s no time for any answers as the flap to the tent that Arthur abruptly realizes they’re in is pulled open, and in steps Sir Leon, looking just as young and magnificent as he had always been, red hair windswept, sword in its sheath at his side. He’s not in his chainmail and cape, as he’d once been, for the majority of his life as a knight in Camelot’s battalion, and the new outfitting of green and brown clothes are somewhat of a status shock to Arthur’s memory of his most loyal knight, but there’s no doubt that it’s Leon before him, stepping into the tent.

 

“My Queen,” Leon says, striding over. “Katerina sent me to—“

 

His eyes flicker over suddenly, and they widen dramatically when he sees Arthur, shock crossing his face. “Arthur,” he breathes, stunned, gaze glued to his king’s form.

 

Arthur nods, the gesture a mix of affirmation and assurance. “Sir Leon,” he acknowledges. “It’s very good to see you, old friend.”

 

Leon bows deeply respectfully, nodding in return as he straightens up again, looking immensely relieved as he watches his king “The same to you, my lord. Very much so. It has been…” He hesitates carefully. “It has been a very long time, sire.”

 

“That it has,” Arthur groans, and Leon’s lips quirk barely, almost a smile at Arthur’s tired sigh. “Don’t remind me.”

 

“As you wish, sire.”

 

“What did you need, Leon?” Guinevere asks, standing from her seat at Arthur’s side, and Leon turns to her, bowing slightly in a similar display of honor. “Is something the matter?”

 

“Not… necessarily,” Leon says, eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. “Katerina sent me for you. Nicolas is awake, and requires your attention.”

 

Guinevere makes an odd face, but nods, turning to Arthur and gently squeezing his hands. “I’ll be right back,” she promises, leaning forward to tenderly press a cheek against Arthur’s forehead, before releasing his hands and moving to leave the tent, Leon throwing a last, lingering look at his king before following her out.

 

Arthur looks to Gaius with a frown. “Nicolas?”

 

Gaius seems to hesitate, before nodding. “Yes, sir. The boy is… in Guinevere’s care.”

 

“Her… care?”

 

“Yes, sire.”

 

Arthur’s brown crinkles, his frown deepening, but Gaius is already speaking again. “And you are in mine. You need to rest, sire.”

 

Arthur shakes his head firmly. “I’ve rested for fifteen hundred years, Gaius. The time for resting is over.”

 

“You just escaped near-death, sire,” Gaius insists. “You need more time to recover before you’re allowed up and about.”

 

“I’m _fine,”_ Arthur says seriously. “I need answers, Gaius. No more secrets, no more lies. I need to know what’s happening. Morgana is _alive,_ Gaius. I watched her die, I was _there,_ yet she sits on Camelot’s throne, while we’re hidden in a camp in the woods. I want _answers.”_

“Sire….”

 

“Are you ready to answer my questions, Gaius?” Arthur asks firmly. “Because right now, that’s all I’m interested in hearing.”

 

“My lord,” Lancelot tries, coming to the side of Arthur that Guinevere had vacated. “Gaius is right. You were nearly killed. You must rest.”

 

“And I said _no,_ Lancelot,” Arthur hisses, frustrated anger welling up hot and immediate in his chest. “I’m tired of being lied to! Did I not receive enough of that before my death?”

 

Gaius pales a little, but Arthur refuses to feel bad, needing answers, turning his forceful gaze back on Gaius. “Where’s Merlin, Gaius?” he hisses. “The prophecy said that he, that _Emrys,_ was destined to be at my side. So where is he? Why is Morgana here, alive?” His voice rises slightly in desperation, in frustration. “Why are you _all_ still alive? I need to _know, Gaius!_ What’s going _on?”_

Gaius swallows, but it’s then that the tent flap is pulled back, again, and Leon returns, Guinevere in tow. Leon looks slightly nervous, shifty, but doesn’t seem to have anything to say, merely there, waiting quietly in the background. Arthur opens his mouth to speak, to demand angrily from them the same he had from Gaius, but he freezes suddenly, eyes on Guinevere as she comes to stand at the foot of the cot he’s laid out on.

 

Guinevere’s silent, as the rest of them are, and her face is unreadable, but Arthur’s isn’t really looking at it. Instead, his eyes are glued to her chest, where her arms are bent in a cradle, and in that cradle is a swaddle of thick blankets, wrapped around a small… something. Something in Arthur’s chest tightens, and his heart grinds to a stop, his brain freezing in the same manner, eyes glued to Guinevere, to those blankets in her arms. Something’s tickling at his mind, something he’s not sure how to understand or know, but his whole body feels locked up, feels strange, unsure. Anxious. His heartbeat begins to pound in his ears.

 

“Arthur?” Lancelot tries carefully, sounding cautious of Arthur’s state. Arthur can’t process, however, can’t find words to say to portray the knot tied in his chest, so instead he just opens his mouth, hesitating before stammering anything out.

 

“Guinevere?” he croaks, voice quivering oddly, nervously. “What’s… I don’t… what is…?”

 

His Queen swallows, and when she speaks her voice is quiet, cautious, a physical embodiment of the _something_ painfully tight in Arthur’s chest. Her coming words are like a blow to the chest, a complete shock to Arthur’s system, more than anything else he’s faced, and his eyes blow wide, heart coming to a stop. He misses four beats. The entire room feels like the oxygen’s been sucked away, like they’re all frozen in time. Arthur can’t breathe, can’t think. He just _stares._

 

“This is Nicolas, Arthur,” Guinevere whispers, every word echoing in Arthur’s ears, past the pounding of his heart, and the bundle in her arms _moves._ “This is… this is your son.”


	6. Chapter 6

Breathing has never seemed so much of a luxury as it does now, and, as Arthur feels a weight like a ton of bricks settle in his stomach, feels a lump swell up in his throat to strangle his voice and block his breath, he realizes more than ever just how lucky it is that his lungs can contract and release, flooding his body with living-giving oxygen, oxygen his body seems to be having significant trouble finding at the current moment. There are four sets of eyes on him, the most important the pair of big, brown ones set in the beautiful face of his wife, but Arthur has to _feel_ these gazes more than see them, mostly because his own vision is blurry from lack of air. His hands are trembling in his lap, and he thinks he might start shaking in a moment, as well, from a mix of bewilderment and surprise and just plain, utter _shock._

In his first time alive, Arthur had believed, truly, that he’d mastered the art, of sorts, of not being surprised, of learning to anticipate actions and consequences of the people and world around him, a trait that turned out not to be so honed once he’d been betrayed and lied to by so many he trusted and cared for, more so than ever in the last decade of his too-short existence. Now he finds himself in the same place, caught in a desperate sort of shock, unable, really, to articulate exactly what he’s thinking.

 

“Arthur?” Gwen’s voice comes faintly, after a long moment of Arthur’s shaken silence, voice trembling to the same rhythm as Arthur’s shaking fingers, a thin thrill of nervousness and worry lining her words. “Arthur, are you… I mean… um…..”

 

“Sire,” Lancelot says lowly, in both concern as well as a nudge to Arthur to _say something, idiot._ “Arthur.”

 

Arthur coughs at that, seeming to come to, somewhat, at the sound of his name. “That —“ he tries, only to stop as his voice chokes up again. His eyes must be popping out of his head, big blue circles of shock, latched onto the slight movements of the bundle Guinevere has cradled to her chest. “That’s — I — um —“

 

Finally he just snaps his mouth shut, forcing himself to exhale, to compose himself. He’s the _king_ for God’s sake. He’s seen nightmarish things some people can’t imagine, has _faced_ those nightmarish things, sometimes with just his wit (and, _ugh,_ a sorcerer on the side, he knows now, but that’s beside the point) and his sword, fighting for his kingdom, his people. Yet, here he is, failing for words at the sight of a… a _baby. His_ baby.

 

Heaven help him.

 

He coughs again weakly, eyes still big. “He’s… that’s my….”

 

Guinevere flushes, shifting uncomfortably. “Your son,” she murmurs again, almost meekly. Guinevere, as far as Arthur can remember, hasn’t seemed so shy since she was still a serving girl, when her curls brushed her shoulders rather than her waist and her dresses were made of yellow and pink cotton rather than magnificent silks of deep red and purple. Her face is older, now, years older (though not as many years as it should have been), but there’s something in her eyes that’s anxious, that’s got that young light of worry as she watches Arthur, arms tensed around the child in her arms that Arthur can’t quite see in the blankets it’s wrapped in.

 

“I… you were…” Arthur says, almost a whisper, trailing off, but Guinevere seems to understand, nodding when the king can’t quite find the words to say.

 

“Pregnant,” she supplies carefully, and Arthur feels a big, new, horrible knot of guilt twist up in his stomach, holding him in place with a weight that seems so impossible to carry, to live with. Arthur exhales, swallowing.

 

“How… how long?”

 

“Was I…?” Guinevere says slowly, and Arthur nods as she considers. “About-about two months. When… during Camlann,” she says, as if to avoid exactly what they’re both really thinking. _When you left. When you died._

Arthur shakes his head a little, still stunned, as if ready to wake up, to be torn from this reality. “You… you didn’t tell me….”

 

“I didn’t know how,” Guinevere sighs heavily, eyes flicking away for the first time since she returned. “We were at war, and I— I didn’t know if we’d even… make it,” she says carefully, “or if I truly was with child, yet… it takes a while to be sure….”

 

Arthur nods knowingly, and this time takes a breath that still feels heavy, but yet not so restricted, not so tearing in his gut. His heart races a little faster when he speaks again. “Can, um… can I….?”

 

“Oh!” Guinevere says, a little jumpy still, nodding quickly. “Yes. Yes, of-of course. Of course, Arthur.” She comes over, hesitating slightly somewhere along the way before moving to his side and carefully sitting on the edge of Arthur’s bed, her own fingers trembling as she reaches up to adjust the baby’s blankets, and Arthur finally gets a look at the person that is his son.

 

The baby — Nicolas, she’d said — is still small, no more than perhaps a few months old, little and slumbering, tiny hands curled in the blankets swaddled around him. His skin is a clean shade of tan, too light to match Guinevere’s, too dark to match Arthur’s, a beautiful blend of the two. His hair is wispy and short, growing in a thin, brown tuff on the top of his beautiful head, looking soft to the touch. So many feelings well up in Arthur as he looks down on this baby, on his _son,_ too many.

 

“That’s my… my son,” he murmurs, and Guinevere nods again, staying quiet as Arthur takes it all in, takes in this change, this enormous, life-changing event.

 

“Nicolas,” she says, and Arthur nods almost dumbly, eyes glued to his child. Guinevere shifts, arms extending slightly. “Here.”

 

Arthur goes wide-eyed again, heart pounding, about to stutter out a nervous string of words, but Guinevere’s already slipping the baby into his arms, cautiously, carefully, and Arthur puts his focus, instead, on not dropping the bundled infant, curling his arms in sloppy imitation of how Guinevere had held the baby. Guinevere adjusts Nicolas so that he’s a bit more comfortably set in Arthur’s arms, and then she pulls away, and Arthur feels the weight, the bare pull of his child laying in his arms, finally in Arthur’s reach.

 

Arthur swallows, nervous, eyes watching the napping face of his little boy. Terror is the first and biggest thing he’s feeling; it’s scarier than anything Arthur’s faced, in recent memory, to hold this child, this small, fragile being, something that could so easily break, or be crushed, and that makes him want to cling impossibly tighter to Nicolas, in protection. It’s so impossible, and yet so not; Arthur’s still waiting to be torn from this world, from this dream, waiting to open his eyes and be back in Avalon, lain out for a nap or woken from a long night’s sleep, still trapped in death on that island, away from this world, away from those he loves.

 

But it’s not a dream, not anymore, and Arthur’s actually holding his son, and no matter what feelings of terror and guilt and anxiety are swelling up in his gut like a fire to oil, there’s one that overcomes all of them, and it’s _love._ It’s so immense, so fervent and new that’s it’s choking, too intense to take all at once, but it’s the only thing it can be, love. It’s not quite like loving his father, or loving Guinevere; it’s so different, so much more than any other kind of love he’s known, and it’s so much but Arthur can’t imagine feeling anything else, can’t imagine feeling anything but this wave of love and hope for the baby in his hold, wouldn’t _want_ to feel anything else. He’s a _father,_ not just a king, a husband, a friend. He’s a _father._

And so now, in the midst of this, is just the time for the tent flap to rip back, and for none other than _Gwaine_ to appear in the tent’s opening, eyes seeking out Leon, who looks like he’s ready to come down on Gwaine with a host of lecturing.

 

“Leon,” Gwaine says before that can come about, and if he notices the scene before him, his resurrected king holding his infant son for the first time in a millennia and a half, he doesn’t draw attention to it, a serious look on his face. “Leon, there’s another one, it’s on the north side. And it’s got a friend.”

 

Leon’s face hardens, and they rush out of the tent instantly as Gaius straightens and Guinevere tenses, the air of calm and silence broken in such abruptness that Arthur feels like he has to adjust for a good half a minute before he realizes that something is _happening,_ and whatever it is, it doesn’t sound good. He forces himself to tear his gaze from his baby, his slumbering son, eyes finding Gaius.

 

“Gaius,” he insists fiercely. “Gaius, what’s going on?”

 

“Sire, I don’t think— “

 

_“Gaius,”_ Arthur hisses, “tell me what’s going on, _now.”_

Gaius doesn’t even open his mouth; there’s a sudden scream from outside, and it rings through the camp like a siren, a shriek of something that Arthur, through the ache of his eardrums, realizes is _not_ human. There’s a shift from the baby in his arms, and then he hears more than looks as Nicolas wakes and begins to cry, struggling in his father’s arms, obviously distraught to be woken by such a terrible noise to the sight of someone he doesn’t yet know nor recognize, no matter their relation.

 

“What is that?” Arthur insists in a hiss, as he lets Guinevere take the child back, holding the baby to her bosom, rocking and shushing him as he sobs, flailing and crying. “I want the truth!” he presses over his child’s crying, glare locked on Gaius, demanding answers.

 

“Arthur,” Lancelot says, pushing himself between his king and the physician, and he seems to go to say something else, but he’s interrupted by another scream, just as loud and inhuman as the first, so loud that it makes the king’s ears ring. There’s the sound of a shout, distantly, and this time it _is_ human, and it sounds more desperate than angry.

 

Arthur moves before he can really consider the idea; he throws off the blankets pooled at his waist before anyone can stop him, and he throws himself to his feet, relying utterly on his power of will as he manages to keep from collapsing on legs he hasn’t used in a while, blood rushing back to them as he staggers into a shaking run, pushing past the tent flap that Leon and Gwaine had left from. The others cry after him in alarm, but Arthur is tired of being confused and having no answers, and so, clad only in trousers and a loose tunic, Arthur _runs._

 

The first thing Arthur sees are rows and rows of tents, stretching out in every direction, rows of brown and beige and green lengths of tarp set up to be lived in, tacked by large pegs into the ground, the entirety of which is overgrown with weeds and dead grass. A few meters in every direction the camp Arthur’s in is surrounded by the trees of the Darkling Woods, dark and tall, as if to block out any light that the sun might give the world below their reach. Arthur doesn’t know where to run, what direction to go, and so he does the only thing he can as he hears Lancelot coming after him, calling for his king: Arthur dashes after the shouts he can distantly hear, throwing himself into a sprint as another horrible scream echoes across the campsite.

 

Arthur’s whole body _aches:_ his legs are working on pure desperation alone, and probably would have given out by now if Arthur weren’t forcing them to move, forcing them to take step after step after running step, bare feet pounding across weeds and dirt. His muscles scream with exhaustion, and yet he clenches his fists and presses on, nearly tripping on a stone as he dashes past tent after tent. His throat feels constricted, still bruised and painful from near-asphyxiation, and air comes so raggedly that Arthur worries he might drop unconscious at any moment, but he doesn’t care, hurrying on as sounds of battle make their way to his ears.

 

There’s a scattering of people as Arthur finally races past the last gathering of tents, groups of people lumped together, all facing in one direction, watching something at the edge of the camp with horrified faces. The sounds of fighting are loud, and the sounds of screams and shouts mix in a barrage, a cacophony. Arthur hurries forward, chest burning, pushing past people who don’t seem to realize quite who he is in the rush of everything, and finally he pushes to the front of the gathering, skidding to a stop, eyes bulging out of his head.

 

Whatever they are, they’re _horrifying._ The creatures that Arthur can see his knights fighting back are large and black, and they look like shadows that have taking solid form, molded into forms that are oily looking and massive, two or three times the size and height of a human man, totally black and _fluid._ They move with the same substance as water, with the same glide and power like that of a snake’s, fluctuating and twisting and extending, the bite in their attacks, in the way they throw out their arms and claw and wrap around those fighting to destroy them. They move with almost careless precision, bending and curling as the knights throw themselves into fighting the monstrous duo, swords hacking, missing as the monsters swerve, then throw themselves forward with horrible screams to claw with long talons at Arthur’s men, or bite at the men with sharp teeth that hide in the black of their bodies until they unlock their jaws to snap.

 

From here Arthur can see them — Leon, Gwaine, Percival, Elyan — all locked on one monster as a collection of other knights attack its partner, a few already fallen, lying dead or injured, all bloody or bruised as they fight with desperation to defend the camp. Other knights come forward as their comrades fall, most newly joining the battle, dressed messily in various states of chainmail and leather, all brandishing swords or maces or spears, but it’s not helping, not really, as the monsters shriek and attack, hurting, _murdering_. Arthur, aching, feels the itch, the need to jump in, to fight, but he has no defense, no weapon; he’s swordless, watching uselessly as one of the monsters lunges out, biting into a man and yanking, tearing him clean apart as the others watch in horror. People watching scream, all looking as if to run, frozen only by the terror they’re feeling — Arthur can feel it too, this paralyzing sensation, unable to run, or shout — keeping them all watching as the knights protect and die defending the camp’s boundaries, perhaps not for much longer —

 

There’s a sudden eruption of horrible _human_ screams, and Arthur and the rest of those watching the battle whip around to the right just in time to see another monster slither out of the shadows, legless, a serpent-like black mesh, body twisting and rippling, teeth bared in a nasty grin that’s all evil and plain bloodlust. There aren’t enough knights to rush, their own fights too desperate to spare fighters in time, and it gives the monster an opening, long arms lashing out toward the crowd, whirling through the air. People finally run, broken from their spell, screaming as they dash away, but Arthur sees the arms, the tentacles, catch onto a woman, perhaps no more than a year or two into adulthood, and she screams as she becomes the fish on the monster’s rod, prey caught in large talons dragging her across the forest floor toward snarling jaws and long, horrible teeth.

 

Arthur doesn’t even think about it, and someone’s shrieking his name from behind him but he barely hears because he’s already running forward, throwing himself at a falling knight, grabbing the man’s sword and yanking it from the man’s dead grip. Arthur’s hands trembled before, but now they’re instinctively steady around the hilt of a blade, and he holds tight to it as he darts toward the shrieking woman, sword raised offensively as he lunges at the creature, passing those ten, twenty meters in moments alone and bringing the blade down _hard_ against the creature’s offending arm.

 

There’s a slick noise, and the creature _screams_ as Arthur’s blade cuts through it’s arm, completely taking off the limb, the tentacle quivering and spasming once against the forest floor before falling still, lost from its conscious host. The woman struggles to her feet in an instant, still screaming and sobbing as she manages to get away, stumbling back toward the camp, and that leaves Arthur alone, solitary against the creature now glaring at him, teeth bared, still host to one arm that looks just as deadly as it’s useless compatriot. Arthur raises his sword, and there’s screaming behind him, calls of _“Arthur!”_ and _“No!”_ but Arthur doesn’t listen as the monster raises it’s still-working limb, a shriek escaping it’s horrible mouth —

 

There’s a sudden cry from one of the other monsters, and suddenly the one that Leon and the others are up against yanks back, away from them in a motion that puts nearly ten meters of space between itself and the knights, holding there instead, as if tensing for a leap that it doesn’t take, like a cat waiting for a bird. It’s partner does it as well, shrieking at the same pitch, and Arthur’s just gotten his sword up in defense, voices calling after him, when the one facing off against him yanks back in the same fashion, the attacks suddenly stopped, the monsters holding back, now standing in line with the trees that border the camp’s boundaries. It’s so sudden, so unexpected, that there’s utter silence, every eye of the knights locked on the horrible creatures watching them, waiting for an attack that’s not coming, that doesn’t come for ten seconds, twenty, a half minute. A whole minute passes, an impasse of tense silence, the knights waiting for something, and Arthur wants to look around but maybe the creatures are waiting for it, for the knights to let their guard down, even if they’re a hundred times stronger than the humans they’re slaughtering —

 

The first monster to leap away hisses, then, suddenly, and Arthur feels a shudder of _something_ go down his spine. He looks without thinking, around at his knights, as if to see if the hairs on the backs of their necks are standing up like his are, and his eyes lock with the pair of beady red ones peering out of the creature’s head, staring right at him. He feels his heart stutter, his muscles locking up; he feels frozen, eyes wide, as the creature parts its long, slick lips, and one word escapes the thing, in a whisper that’s ragged and twisted and seems to fill the whole camp:

 

_“Arthur.”_

It comes in a voice that Arthur hasn’t hear in fifteen-hundred years. It comes in the voice of _Merlin._

 

And then, as if they’d never been there, the creatures turn away and are gone, slipping through the trees, fleeing, the fight over, the camp in silence. It’s so odd, so strange, and there’s nothing but quiet for near a minute, nothing but the rustle of the wind and the pounding of hearts inside aching chests.

 

Arthur feels like he can’t breathe; his muscles are doing something funny. They feel loose, and his head feels fuzzy. His chest aches, screams for air that he feels like he can’t find.

 

For the second time since Arthur’s return to Camelot, to worried calls of his name, Arthur collapses in a dead faint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I’m so full of filler chapters, and this chapter went a totally different direction that I thought it would, but I actually really like that this happened? Kind of. The intro of the monsters was needed, though, and I’m glad that got in. 
> 
> The next chapter will be exciting! Some revelations are coming up, brahs. 
> 
> So I thought I’d answer up to a comment or two while I’m here, and I’m going to do both my FanFiction and my AO3 comments in the same area. 
> 
> To the Guest that wrote that Arthur was OOC: Well. First, telling me that Arthur’s OOC and then providing me no evidence as to how really doesn’t help me improve how I write Arthur. Please, if you’re going to tell me things like that, give me some feedback about what seemed so out of character. (I’m also not “replacing” Merlin, but even if I was, destiny can include other characters?)  
> To Ezezaguna: Don’t worry, your English is fine!  Thank you so much for your compliment! I’m glad that you’re enjoying the story!  
> To mersan123: Revelations are coming! I hope you stick with me, because there’s definitely going to be some answers coming up!  
> To MistyNocturne: First off, I’m so glad you caught the Sleeping Beauty imagery, because that was definitely what I based it off of. I’m really glad that you like the story, and I’m flattered by your compliments  thank you for reading!
> 
> Please try to leave some reviews! Much appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Fanfiction.net link:


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